


Ours is the Winter

by doubletaurus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Boners, Canon Divergence after about 5x09, Canon-Divergence - Battle of the Bastards, F/M, Fix-It, How Did I Get Here?, Let's say M+, May/December Relationship, Might Get Sexy, Older Man/Younger Woman, Our girl has been hurt after all, Past Rape/Non-con, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Rating May Change, Season 6-8 reboot, Shireen Lives, Should I Change The Rating?, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Stannis the Mannis, UPDATE: GOT SEXY, What's the difference between M and E?, heartsfeels, pantsfeels, we'll see, with a beautiful wife, you may ask yourself, you may find yourself in a beautiful house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 07:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 54,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18516661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubletaurus/pseuds/doubletaurus
Summary: A canon-divergent AU where Stannis doesn't take a wildly-out-of-character heel-turn into filicide, and is able to recover from the setbacks on the march to Winterfell (as he is reportedly still very much alive in The Winds of Winter.)Sansa's story is the same up to her escape from Winterfell with Theon, unfortunately, but it's not Brienne who saves her. (WHO COULD IT BE?!?)





	1. The Test

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly TV-verse with some book elements incorporated but I haven't read them (waiting for the next book to come out) and I'm relying on fan wikis, so you know, if something seems off, handwave it away. Fic is fun!

Stannis squinted into the blustery snow, overlooking the war camp and doing some rudimentary calculations. Taking Winterfell was always going to be a risk – a calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless – without having gained broader support from the North before marching down the King’s Road and attempting to secure it after the Boltons had been eliminated. At this point, though, he was forced to reckon that it would be foolhardy to continue on - mercenaries simply couldn’t be counted on if they were both cold and as hungry as they’d be with the supplies lost from the Bolton bastard’s sabotage, and he wasn’t going to lose what was left of his own loyal men in a pursuit of sheer folly. The odds of a successful siege at this point were slim to none, and a re-evaluation was in order. He mulled their options as he absently, methodically sharpened his sword.

“Your Grace.” Stannis nodded in acknowledgment of Davos’ arrival, who wore a look on his face that indicated he had reached a similar conclusion after surveying the scene. “Unless there's a thaw, we can't press forward to Winterfell and we don't have enough food to get us back to Castle Black.”

“I know.” Stannis stood, ground his teeth. “It’ll be tight – but I think we’ll make it back to Castle Black, and hopefully the Watch will welcome us as reinforcements in the meantime. They can teach us their winter hunting skills, perhaps, so we’re not quite a burden on their stores. Have the dead horses butchered for meat, then, and make preparations to return to the Wall.”

Relief spread across Davos’ face. “Yes, Your Grace, right away, Your Grace.”

“You’ll head back with Princess Shireen ahead of the army. Get her back to the shelter of a castle as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stannis began to issue another order, but a screech broke out across the camp. Turning and searching through the squalls, they could make out the form of Shireen, being dragged by two infantry men towards a pyre, followed by Melisandre and Selyse. “What in the gods –“ Davos started, before breaking into a run across the camp. His deep-seated distrust of Melisandre and her agenda had him make sense of the scene a little faster than Stannis, but the king made up the ground in a hurry.

“Melisandre!” He barked, planting himself in front of the two men. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Selyse answered instead, eyes bright and fevered. “The Lord of Light requires sacrifice! It has been seen!”

“I beg your ever-loving pardon, m’lady, but what does that mean, exactly?” Davos planted himself in front of the infantry men, while eyeing the Red Woman accusingly.

“The girl,” Melisandre replied coolly, but with a fanatical glint in her eye. “These storms and this sabotage are a test, a test of our faith. If we do not act, we will starve here. We must sacrifice to save this campaign and save Your Grace’s troops - I have seen it in the flames.”

 Stannis stared steadily at the Red Woman. “Sacrifice what, exactly?”

“The blood of kings, Your Grace. The ultimate personal sacrifice, in the Lord of Light’s name. We will cleanse her with his fire.”

 Horrified, Davos made to grab for Shireen - “Are you mad, woman?” - before Stannis held up a hand. Davos froze, staring at his king, uncertain.

“This is a test, Melisandre? From your Lord?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She smiled beatifically, despite the horror of the situation, turning Davos’ stomach as a crowd around them grew.  “We must make this sacrifice, your sacrifice in his name. He will accept this token of our faith, my Lord, and he lead us from this darkness. It is the only way.”

Stannis nodded slowly, briefly cut his eyes to his wife. “Selyse?”

“It was in the fire, my lord. I may not have given you a son, but this daughter  - this daughter can save us all.”

Shireen whimpered at least words from her mother, while Stannis stared into his wife’s face for a few quiet beats. Then his mouth flattened into a firm line and he nodded to himself. Davos couldn’t hold back any longer. He knocked the man closest to him and pulled Shireen close to him. This wasn’t going to happen, even if Stannis – 

Stannis broke his silence. “This is a test. And I must pass it.” He flicked his eyes at Davos. “The Princess Shireen is my daughter, my blood. Take her to the safety of her quarters, and do not leave her side.” Davos nodded, circling a protective arm around Shireen as Selyse screeched incoherently and Melisandre protested, but instantly found themselves restrained by members of Stannis’ Kingsguard at a quick signal from Davos. Stannis turned his attention back to the two women and cut off their protests with a hand gesture. “No true Lord of Light would require the sacrifice of an innocent girl. No true Lord of Light would have a man kill his own daughter for his own gain. Either the Lord of Light is a false God, or you bear false witness. Which is it?”

Stannis stared down Melisandre, and she stared back, and Davos could almost see the wheels turning. “Neither, your Grace.”

“Neither.”

“No, Your Grace – it, it was a test, a test from R'hllor in this time of darkness and strife... but you have passed. R’hllor is the one true god, the god of fire and light and life, and today you chose a path of life, not darkness. Truly, you are the One True King, the leader we all deserve, wise and just.”  Davos nearly snorted – whatever agenda that woman was pushing, she knew she had obviously crossed a line by threatening Shireen in any way, and one that Stannis would not soon forget - if ever.

“As you say, Melisandre. I am glad to have passed the Lord of Light’s test. Perhaps he will soon see to bless us and deliver us from our current darkness, but I think we’ll rely on our good sense in the meantime.” Melisandre curtsied slowly, while Selyse moaned, senseless, in the captive grip of the Kingsguard. Stannis eyed both her and some of Melisandre’s wild-eyed followers, lurking behind the confrontation, and raised his voice in clear and measured tones. “The Princess Shireen is not to be touched, and anyone who attempts her harm will meet my blade. Our limited food stores have no rations for those who harm children. If you want to be delivered from this darkness, pray harder.” With that, Stannis stomped towards the tents, flanking Shireen on her other side, escorting her with Davos towards the girl’s quarters.

They were nearly there when they heard a chorus of shouts and turned to see Selyse fling herself upon the open flames of a bonfire, screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost incorporated an element of the Azor Ahai prophecy by stabbing Selyse through the heart with Lightbringer, but decided that might be too traumatic for Shireen; she's been through enough, SHOW.


	2. Options

Stannis rubbed his forehead and reviewed his maps of the area surrounding Winterfell. Despite the sudden weather shift in their favour hours after Selyse’s mad dash into the flames, they weren’t in the clear just yet. If Roose Bolton was man enough to meet him on the battlefield, odds were they’d prevail, but in case of a siege at the dawn of winter, the odds tilted back against them with the strained state of their stores. They’d bolstered more rations at a village both friendly to their cause and grateful for his coin, but surely not enough to starve the usurpers out.

He ground his teeth, pushing back from the table. Roose Bolton was a cold, calculating son of a bitch. He either needed to locate more supplies, or come up with an alternate plan to lure Bolton out of his hold. Some kind of subterfuge to take Winterfell without an army at all, from inside? He scowled. It wasn’t his preferred style; he preferred the honour of a battlefield. He also didn’t want to attack Winterfell in any way that weakened the integrity of the structure; it would be too important a hold against the terrors north of the Wall.

He decided to go for a walk, to think, and perhaps check in on Shireen again. She and her mother had never been close, and she’d been holding up reasonably well under the circumstance - and Davos was keeping close watch. Still, he should stop by -

A disturbance outside his cottage drew his attention before a knock sounded, Davos at the door: “Your Grace! Prisoners!”

He bade them enter and two people – one a stocky, dark haired lad, and one glowering blond giantess in full armour – were escorted in by two of his soldiers, hands bound, and pushed to the ground in front of him. Always at hand, Davos followed behind them while a knight crisply reported. “Your Grace! We found these two lurking around the outer grounds of Winterfell on our reconnaissance mission. They refused to answer questions, and when she recognized our armour, the woman drew her sword."

Stannis raised a brow. “Did she now?” The woman glared up at him defiantly, and he noted her own expensive, well-made attire, and the confiscated sword with a Lannister lion upon the pommel. “What are you then, a Lannister spy? Or loaned out for some purpose to Roose Bolton?”

“Hardly,” the woman spat, quite literally, at his feet.

Davos raised a mild brow. “My lady, you are speaking to Stannis Baratheon, the One True King –“

“I know who he is,” she interrupted. “I saw his face when he murdered his brother.”

Stannis blinked, but refused her the satisfaction of a reaction. “I was quite a ways away when Renly met his end.”

The woman snarled. “I am Brienne of Tarth, former Kingsguard to King Renly Baratheon, and I watched a shadow with your face take his life. Be forewarned, Kinslayer: I am solemnly sworn to mete out justice in his name.”

She saw what, now? Stannis cut a glance towards Davos, who looked away in discomfort. Stannis had heard this Brienne woman had killed Renly herself, while he’d readied the troops for his dawn attack. At the time, he’d merely appreciated the timing of whatever internal drama had averted having to rout his own men and wasting resources better reserved for the campaign on King’s Landing. Had Melisandre intervened directly? “The word from the Storm’s End men upon joining my cause was that you had murdered Renly, Lady Brienne.”

The blond woman scoffed. “I saw what I saw; you will not escape justice for your blood magic murder, Baratheon.”

“My lady, no matter what you saw, it was not Stannis Baratheon who assassinated his brother.” Davos interjected, sliding his eyes to Stannis briefly, a promise to speak later. The guilty flash in his Hand’s eyes confirmed it - thank god he’d resisted the witch’s influence before yet another kinslaying violation. He’d have to have her watched far more closely.

Brienne, however, narrowed her eyes, and repeated. “I know what I saw.” Her young squire looked nervous and furtively looked between her defiant face and the face of the king.

“Very well then.” His time was hardly well-spent arguing the point with a woman so clearly taken in by Renly’s considerable, but duplicitous charms. “So you’ve come north to do your duty and avenge him then?"

“No. I am here in duty, but for an oath sworn to another.”

“Another?”

She tilted her chin proudly. “Lady Catelyn Stark.”

Stannis considered her, cocked a brow. “Lady Catelyn is as dead as Renly.”

Brienne glowered. “Yes, I am quite aware. Before her death, Lady Catelyn foreswore me to find and safeguard her lady daughters.”

Stannis and Davos both straightened, then, interested. “Daughters?”

“Yes. Sansa and Arya Stark. I was entrusted by Lady Catelyn to trade Jaime Lannister at Kings Landing in exchange for their safe return.”

Stannis quirked an eyebrow her lion-tipped sword again. “Were you?”

Lady Brienne flushed through her resentment. “The Bolton betrayal of House Stark complicated the successful fulfillment of my oath, yes. But I am still bound by duty to find and protect Lady Catelyn’s daughters.”

“And you believe yourself to be doing this lurking in the woods surrounding Winterfell.”

“Yes, Lady Sansa Stark is at Winterfell.”

Stannis stood. “You’re sure of this?” He shared a look with Davos. Jon Snow had not mentioned such a thing; if he’d known, Stannis imagined the young man would have thrown the Lord Commander’s title back at the Night Watch and ridden south ahead of him. Lady Sansa, if he recalled, had been held captive in King’s Landing as a political prisoner and remained betrothed to that vicious little incest bastard, and had by all accounts disappeared after Joffrey’s assassination. Whispers had swirled as to her part in the scheme, but this is the first he’d heard of a sighting of her since his bastard nephew had met his grisly end. Arya Stark had disappeared after her father’s beheading, and was widely presumed dead at this point – what girl of her age could have survived on her own? He wasn’t sure how Lady Brienne was supposed to trade for her as well, though perhaps the Starks had been given different information than he.

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Brienne gritted. “I found her on the King’s Road under the protection of Lord Baelish and the Vale, headed north to marry her off to Roose Bolton’s bastard.”

At this, Stannis began to pace. Godsdamned Littlefinger. The tale of Baelish’s foolhardy duel with Brandon Stark over his misguided preoccupation with young Catelyn Tully was well-known. Stannis had only met Lady Sansa once, as a very young girl, but he remembered her to be an uncommonly pretty child, heavily favouring her mother with bright copper hair, quiet and reserved amongst the otherwise wild, brawling pack of Ned’s offspring. He’d had the misfortune of meeting Baelish on a number of occasions in the capital, on the other hand; he found him an oily and untrustworthy man who gave off such a distinct aura of licentiousness Stannis found himself watching like a hawk when ladies were present. How many years had Sansa now? 17? She was a few years older than Shireen, he thought. Stannis saw in his mind’s eye a tiny redheaded girl in a fluffy fur cloak, shyly practicing her curtsey under her mother’s supervision. Her face turned to Shireen’s, and he felt sick.

And being ensnared by Baelish was bad enough for Lady Sansa, but if she was now left at the mercy of the Boltons.... “Married. They’re wed?”

Brienne replied, stiff. “If not yet, very soon. I was camped outside the castle to aid her if need be. The Boltons are a vicious people, and I am sure no marriage to them will be a safe or happy one.”

Yes. Gods, the atrocities nobles visited upon their daughters in the course of the Game. Ned Stark had lost his head and his daughter had been left without protection and passed among the hands of her enemies. What had Stannis been thinking, bringing Shireen so close to the cruelty of the Boltons? He needed her safely away - gods forbid if Melisandre was right, and he was now due to meet a similar fate by refusing R’hllor’s sacrifice. Abruptly, he signalled the guards. “Thank you for this information, Lady Brienne, you and your squire will be taken to a cell – that is, I presume you refuse to bend the knee?”

She lifted her chin. “I do.”

“Very well; my treacherous brother hardly deserved such devotion, but that’s your choice to make. I’m not sure I should send you to serve at the Wall, nor am I sure they’d accept you. I’ll decide your fate at a later time.” He raised a hand, dismissing her glowering countenance, and the nervous squire as well.

Davos waited until the door was closed. “Well, that changes things a good deal. A trueborn Stark.”

“Indeed.”

“What are your thoughts?

“I have many.” Stannis began to pace. “If Lady Brienne’s to be believed, Bolton is clearly trying to secure the North long-term; likely, he’s meeting with the same kind of resistance I got from the likes of Lyanna Mormont, if not worse, for betraying House Stark. I’m surprised he didn’t try to marry the Stark girl himself, instead of matching her to a bastard son. On the other hand, I can’t imagine his Lannister allies would be happy to hear about this.”

“I think I heard that Roose married a Frey shortly before the Red Wedding, so he’s not at liberty to do so - at least not without some bloodshed and alienating Walder. If he legitimizes the boy – if he hasn’t already - than his heir has married a Stark. That may go a long way with Northerners.”

Stannis grimaced. “Knowing Bolton, being married to his son might not spare the girl from his attentions. What do we know about the boy?”

“Not much. Likes to hunt, like most Boltons, I think.”

“Well.’ Stannis stared into the fire. “We need to know more. And we obviously have to try to extract the girl before she’s wed.”

“We do?”

“Yes. Rescuing Lady Sansa has strategic value; with Jon Snow’s refusal to accept legitimacy, Sansa Stark is the sole legitimate heir to Winterfell. If she declares for me, the North will follow –“ his lips twisted with dark humour, thinking again of little Lady Mormont’s terse missive – “and we’ll have the troops and Northern expertise needed to succeed in a campaign against Winterfell. But moreover, I am duty-bound to Ned Stark; regardless of his friendship with Robert, Lord Stark lost his head exposing the Lannister treachery and supporting my claim to the Throne. His daughter was left to the mercy of our enemies for it. The Young Wolf might have declared independence against the South in the fallout, but that’s hardly the fault of Lady Sansa, and we can’t leave her with a house that flays their enemies. It would be unconscionable – they‘ll murder her as soon as she produces an heir.

“Which brings me to Shireen – I’m entrusting you to return her to Castle Black, immediately. I was stupid thinking she’d be safest with me, that is foolhardy – I will not have her fall into Bolton hands should anything happen to me.” Davos nodded, serious. “Take the Red Woman with you, and contain her at Castle Black. Take only men who follow the old gods. I don’t want her here anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, I'm absolving Stannis of Renly's murder. It's my party and I'll fix what I want to.


	3. Frostheat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis comes across two fugitives in the forest.

Stannis rode through the woods towards Winterfell with a team of seven soldiers, already missing Davos’ company. He, Shireen, and Melisandre had left for Castle Black with a small cadre of men; the rest of his army was packing up and preparing to move, either back to Castle Black or towards Winterfell, depending on how this latest reconnaissance mission went. They were approaching the north of Winterfell; he’d decided his best chance was a small specially-chosen team who might approach the castle under guise, to look for or inquire about Sansa Stark and take stock whatever resources Bolton hid behind the walls. He also personally wanted to get a lay of the land to better prepare for the eventual battle to come; it had been some time since he had visited Winterfell, and knowing the terrain could be key to success.

Frowning, he slowed his destrier, motioned for everyone to slow to a halt, then silently signalling them to retreat to shelter in the brush. What was that noise? Hounds?

A company of men approached in the middle distance, appearing from the trees surrounded by snarling, threatening dogs. Hungry hunting dogs. The Boltons liked to hunt.

Suddenly, a thin, straggly man appeared out of nowhere - under the stump of a fallen tree? – and appeared to surrender. “Where’s Lady Bolton?” Stannis heard the head of the company demand, voice carrying over the snow.

“Dead!” the man responded.

A sneer. “Liar.” The dogs began to growl.

“She hurt herself in the fall from the ramparts; I left her to die.”

The dogs began to howl in earnest, and pulled free past the man to race to the hollow of that tree, and Stannis realized with a start there was a figure cowering there.

He didn’t know if it was Roose’s Frey girl or Sansa Stark, but it seemed an opportune moment to take out some Boltons. He considered the dogs – hunting animals could be useful, but they seemed vicious beasts, and he didn’t trust they’d accept new masters.

“Follow me – kill every man in a helmet, and the dogs as well.” He drew Lightbringer, spurred his destrier into action, leading the charge through the brush directly towards the circle of hunters at the tree.

The skirmish didn’t take long - he took the head of their leader on his first pass, and another two on his circle back. His men took care of the rest, and raising his mount onto his hind legs, the dogs met a quick fate. The thin, straggly man even picked up a sword from a fallen Bolton, and took out the last of the enemy, seemingly amazed at his own ability to do so.

Stannis circled the bodies to ensure all were dead. “Strip them of their clothing and weapons and pack them up; they may come in handy if we need to enter Winterfell covertly. Leave their remains for the animals.” He considered the dead dogs. He was a practical man, and beggars couldn’t be choosers, in winter. “Truss the dogs to bring back to camp as well, perhaps the meat will be useful, as bait or otherwise.” His men nodded, and got to work. He dismounted, eyeing the thin man, who reflexively dropped the sword he was carrying. who seemed stunned to silence. and sheathed his sword. “Come out, my lady” he called over to the woman cowering in the hull. “The threat is gone.”

The figure hesitated for a long beat, then slowly stepped out of the dark into the cool gloom of the clearing. Bright hair, though in complete disarray. A pale, blotchy face, scratched, with hollow eyes. She moved stiffly, from pain or cold he could not tell, but she was tall and proud, and appeared to be trying to gather her self-possession despite the tears freezing on her face. Her eyes met hers, and his suspicions were confirmed: Tully blue.

“Lady Sansa.” There was no denying it; she was the image of a young Catelyn Tully, despite her bedraggled state.

“You have the advantage of me, my lord.” Her voice wavered, and he noted her hand was wrapped around a knife at her side.

Of course – they carried no banners. He was so used to Davos introducing him, that it took him a moment to respond. “Stannis Baratheon. The One True King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Stannis Baratheon,” she echoed distantly, keeping the knife in her hand. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“My lady?”

“I was told you were expected to take Winterfell. But Ramsey boasted that he’d sabotaged you.”

Stannis smirked, pulling his mouth to one side. “Aye, he tried.” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “Lady Sansa, my army was approaching Winterfell when we were told that you had been given to the Boltons. We were coming to investigate, but did not expect to find you here in the woods.” She did not respond, watching his men do their work. “Did I hear these men refer to you as Lady Bolton?”

“Yes.”

“So I did not arrive in time to prevent your marriage to the Bolton bastard.”

At that, she met his eyes, cold. “No. You did not.”

Stannis ground his teeth. Damned it all; too late. Jumping from the parapets and running through the forest did not indicate she’d left a pleasant marriage, but her honour demanded he at least ask. “Do you wish to be returned to your lord husband?”

Sansa replied evenly, staring him directly in the eye. “I will die before I return to Ramsey Bolton, Your Grace.” Her hold on the knife shifted.

Ah, he thought. He pressed his lips together, nodded, and attempted a gentle (for him, at least) tone. “Then I offer to return you to your brother, Lady Stark, at Castle Black.”

“Jon?”

“Yes. Jon Snow is now Lord Commander of the Night Watch, and you will be well-hosted there until my forces are able to take Winterfell.”

Sansa eyed him, wary, as if trying to puzzle him out. She watched his men again, efficiently packing their horses with their spoils, examining their Baratheon armour, their quiet patience as their lord addressed her. She nodded slowly, returned her knife to a fold in her dress. “Yes, Your Grace. I would very much like to be returned to my brother.”

He nodded brusquely, the matter settled. “Now who’s this?” he asked, turning to her companion, who shrank bank as if he’d be hoping he’d been forgotten.

“The-the-theon. Theon Greyjoy,” the man stuttered out.

Stannis raised his brows and sent a questioning look at Sansa. “Greyjoy? The fostered Greyjoy who betrayed the Young Wolf and killed your brothers?”

“Yes, “ she responded. “Though he claims he did not kill my brothers, but children from the village.”

Stannis examined the man, who managed somehow to give off the distinct impression of a worm. “Murdering children is a crime even if they are not Starks, Greyjoy, as is treason.”

Sansa added softly, “He did also help me escape. I would not have made it this far without him.”

“Even so. Good does not erase bad. But I will decide his fate later; we need to return to camp. Choose a mount, Greyjoy – Errol, bind his hands.” He turned back to Sansa. “Can my men help you mount one of the Bolton horses, Lady Stark?” Sansa nodded and began a path towards the mounts but stopped after a step, wincing. “Lady Sansa?”

“I - I’m sorry Your Grace, I don’t mean to delay you. But we were forced to cross the river to escape the hounds, and my skirts, my boots have frozen. I’m not sure if I can ride as I would otherwise.”

Concerned, Stannis took a closer look. Indeed, lower half of Sansa’s clothes appeared frozen, moving in one solid mass, and he could imagine the state of her boots. He swore ripely – a man of war knew how important it was to keep one’s feet dry, and depending on how long she’d been out of the water, she could lose toes, if not a foot. “Sit down!” he barked. “Errol! I need dry stockings. And do any of those dead men have small feet? Two saddlebags, then.” He briskly herded Sansa over to a fallen tree and set her down. “Your feet,” he ordered, and lifted the wall of stiff, frozen material to access her boots. Ice had crusted and frozen the laces, though they were finely made Northern boots, and may have protected her feet from the worst of it.

He managed to wrench the first boot off, and examined the damage. Cold, stiff, but not too far gone. Parts of her toes were indeed waxy and frozen, he noted grimly, but not showing signs of blistering. “Not too bad milady, but we can’t wait to treat it fully here. I’ll warm and dry them with my hands, but then we’ll have to make do with dry stockings and saddlebags until we have to get back to camp.” He repeated the process with the other foot and then removed his gloves to take both of her small feet in his hands, using his body warmth to warm them as his cloak sheltered their exposed skin from worst of the elements. He looked up at her small noise of distress. “You’re a lady of the north, I presume you understand the treatment for frostheat.”

“Y-y-es, of course. It’s just… I’ve never received the treatment myself. And I suppose I may be overwhelmed with the events of the day.” Sansa replied, blinking and coming back to herself.

“Naturally. Errol, stockings?” He called over his shoulder. “And I don’t suppose you found anything that could adequately replace a lady’s skirts?”

“We could perhaps fashion something with a couple of the Bolton’s cloaks, milord, but I’m not sure how we’d be able to fasten it in a way that would last the trip even back to camp, Your Grace. They may be of better use as blankets of some sort.”

Stannis ground his teeth, checked in on Sansa’s feet, which seemed to have warmed considerably. “Saddlebags?”

“Yes, Your Grace, here with the stockings.”

Stannis nodded to accept them next to Sansa and indicated that Errol should take Sansa’s frozen items to carry to camp, before he stopped to evaluate their options for travel. Frozen solid skirts and saddlebagged feet did not precisely allow for easy solo riding; she was going to have to ride with someone else. He eyed his men before sighing inwardly. There was no real option – he was not going to have a highborn lady ride back in the arms of just any of his men. Besides, his destrier was the largest, and most able to carry the extra weight without slowing their progress. He scowled at the very silly, fanciful image that flitted though his mind, of a handsome knight carrying a young, fair maiden, fresh from rescue. He was going to feel absolutely _ridiculous_ , but there was to be no avoiding it. Thank the Gods that Davos wasn’t there to see, and rib him about it.

Lady Sansa was watching her feet in his hands quietly, and he didn’t like how very slim and fragile she seemed at that moment. He was a hard man, who often broke fragile things. He cleared his throat. “How are they feeling, Lady Stark?”

“Much better, Your Grace.”

“It’s better not to get them too warm before we can stabilize them. I’ll send a man ahead to get water warmed at the camp to finish treatment there. Put the stockings on, and we’ll protect them against the wind with the saddlebags.” He efficiently covered her feet and secured the bags, looping them to her inner skirts, and stood, offering an arm to help with her awkward predicament. Lady Sansa tentatively took it, and carefully rose. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Unfortunately, you can’t ride alone like this, so you’ll ride with me. It won’t be comfortable for either of us, but I can’t think of a better option that will get us back to camp in as good time.” Sansa paused, but nodded. He swallowed, strangely nervous. “Don’t worry; you should be fine by the time we leave for Castle Black and will ride alone.”

He walked her over to his mount, barking for two of the Bolton cloaks to be brought. Settling quickly in his saddle, he reached down to pull Sansa – tall, but slim – up and sideways across his lap, feeling (as predicted) _perfectly_ ridiculous. By the gods above, he was not fit for the heroic role of handsome, romantic prince.

He focussed on practicalities, draping one cloak across her lap and down her legs to give her another layer of warmth, and another over her shoulders, before shaking out his own cloak to surround the both of them. “Tolerable?”

She cleared her throat, her blue eyes firmly cast to the ground ahead of her. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Excellent. As long as she felt as awkward as he did. He glanced over to ensure that Theon was mounted, bound and that some measures had been taken with his feet as well – men of the Night’s Watch should at least try to arrive with their toes intact, he thought, but wasn’t overly concerned with the health of a murderous turncoat like Greyjoy.

He signalled to his mount it was time to move, and Sansa shifted with the movement. Automatically, he shifted his grip to anchor her with one arm, then coughed a little. The only way to get through this was to aggressively pretend none of it was happening. “Alright men, let’s head out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The internet told me how to treat frostbite, so blame the internet if it sounds wrong. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Perfectly Pragmatic and Practical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis and Sansa make their way back to camp.

Sansa fought to keep her eyes open against the heavy pull of exhaustion, watching the forest in a surreal haze. Between the cold and the draining terror of her escape, every part of her yearned to succumb to slumber, but she fought against the pull. She _might_ be safe now, but if her time in King’s Landing, the Eyrie, and a Bolton-held Winterfell had taught her anything, it was that the moment you feel safe is likely the moment you’re most at risk.

 _Look at you now, dramatically rescued and embraced in the arms of a king, gallantly carried to safety,_ she mused to herself, mockingly. Rather the stuff of her old daydreams, and wasted on the girl she was now. And Stannis Baratheon was no vision of gallant knight. Her thoughts flashed back to handsome, charming Jaime Lannister, smiling with smug confidence astride his mount, and his golden… nephew Joffrey, whom she’d once dreamily expected to grow to cut a similar figure.  By the gods, what a fool she’d been.

Stannis Baratheon, on the other hand, was obviously a hard man, a serious one; the lines on his face indicated he was far more inclined to frowns and scowls then smiles. But his gaze was solid, reassuring, unwaveringly intense; he stood proud and tall, perfectly assured of his command. He had routed Bolton’s men almost effortlessly,  the speed with which she’d been saved from a pack of snarling hounds at her throat incredibly disorienting. Stannis’ men were calm, disciplined, and followed his orders instantly, which she also found reassuring. Joffrey’s men had tended towards fear  or ambivalent  tolerance towards him, while a few had outright delighted in his acts of cruelty. The Bolton men, similarly, were of an even baser, colder nature; it was hardly surprising of a House that displayed flayed men on their banner fostered support from a certain kind of man. Even the knights Littlefinger had marshalled for the trip north had affected the dutiful, obedient but ultimately disinterested air of sell-swords, nothing approaching the clear respect Stannis’ men held for him.

His manner towards her had been similarly reassuring. He’d neither employed the false barracuda-smiles and deceptively courtly manners as preferred by the Lannisters and the lords and ladies of the capital, nor the quiet, predatory menace of the Boltons. Nor did he elicit the tension and awareness that Baelish’s solicitous, overfamiliar purr and appreciative eyes roused in her. His manner was refreshingly straightforward and free of manipulation. Arguably, Stannis Baratheon had encroached upon her person as much as Baelish had – raising her skirts, pulling her into his lap – but it felt… different. Her instinctive alarm had banked nearly as quickly as it was aroused when his men hadn’t winked, smirked or otherwise batted an eye when Stannis had lifted her skirts to care for her feet. It quickly became apparent he’d was focussed solely on pragmatic emergency frostheat care - and his men had not expected anything else but that. 

More disconcerting, if she was going to be honest, had been her own reaction. If you’d asked her even an hour prior to her encounter with the king, Sansa would have grimly declared that she would prefer a man never to touch her intimately ever again. But mere moments into the process of warming of her feet with body heat, she’d felt safe, even … comforted. There’d been no threat or agenda in Stannis’ touch, and his hands had been large and startlingly warm, though calloused. Perhaps it was the state of her poor ill-treated feet, but the overall effect had felt soothing, much like warming herself by a fire.

Even now, pressed against the hard steel of Stannis’ chest armour, she felt warmer than she thought she could ever be while still encased in her wet clothing, and again – she imagined being in a similar situation with Littlefinger, and knew instinctually that he would definitely have tried to take liberties with her; whispered secrets too close to her ear, not-so-accidental brushes with his hands. Stannis, on the other hand, was apparently doing his level best to pretend she was a rolled rug tossed across his lap. He’d not bothered to speak to her since their departure; he clearly felt that in any way acknowledging the forced intimacy of their situation was beneath their dignity. Instead, his watchful hawk eyes scoured the road ahead and the woods alongside, alert to any possible attack.  

It was a little bewildering, she allowed herself to muse, rocking with the motion of the horse and staring blindly into the woods, that the man considered himself both King of Westeros and not above taking such care of her as he had. The idea of Joffrey attending to her injured feet in such a way was outright laughable. She even had trouble picturing _King Robert_ handling such a task himself. But Stannis Baratheon was a lifelong military man, a general, she reminded herself. Her father had spoken highly of him at least once, praising Stannis as the kind of man who would never ask of his men something he wasn’t willing to do himself.

Her father. With a small start, she realized that Stannis reminded her, in many ways, of her father. Oh, there were clear differences – Stannis carried himself with a confident, swaggering authority that she felt her father never truly grew into after he’d inherited his title. Stannis was also a shade more brusque and abrupt than Ned, she decided, and while she imagined her father would have felt similarly awkward in this kind of forced closeness with a strange woman, she felt he would have been more comfortable engaging in conversation than remaining coolly silent throughout it. But her father had also been a serious, frowny type of man, one who took his duties and responsibilities to heart. He treated his men well, while tolerating no foolishness or cruelty, and he was well-respected in return.  And he would have cared for someone’s injured feet himself, she was quite sure. For all his reputation as a cold, unlikeable grouch, she thought rather wistfully, Stannis Baratheon was first person she’d met since leaving her childhood and the North that felt like someone from home.

Whether it was this revelation, or simply her endurance finally reaching its limit, Sansa felt herself begin to give way to sleep. Unconsciously, she moved her arm from the armour of Stannis’ chest and angled herself under his arm. From that position, her cheek nestled into the soft fur lining the neck of his cape, and her eyes drifted shut. There was no safety in this world, she now knew. But this was probably the closest she’d get for quite a while.

 

*---*---*

 

Oh, dear gods above. Was she _nuzzling_ him?

No, that was a foolish thought. Stannis chanced a glance down, and saw that the girl had finally drifted off to sleep. Good, that was for the best, though the overall effect, after she’d shifted angles, was rather… snuggly. He adjusted his grip, switching his reins to the other hand, to better support her with the arm she’d leaned into. She needed her rest. Indeed, he’d refrained from speaking to her in the hopes that she would do so, and there was also the fact that if he’d spent the better part of the day hunted down by a pack of mad dogs, he wouldn’t be in any kind of mood to engage in needless prattle either. There’d be plenty of time to talk once she’d been fully tended to, fed, and had a good night’s sleep.

He mulled over his list of priorities once getting back to camp. Berda from the camp followers could be conscripted to care for Lady Sansa for the night; she’d come from Storm’s End area and had once served in the kitchens there, which made her more used to caring for a highborn lady than any of the women he knew from Dragonstone lands. He needed to make decisions about the Tarth woman and her squire, as well as the Greyjoy traitor. And then he needed to decide whether to move the entire army north again, or leave the bulk of them behind to make a more permanent camp and reserve their energies for the battle now sure to come. He’d move faster without them as well, though he was nervous about further saboteur raids from the Bolton boy. Perhaps if they found a more sheltered and secluded spot that gave them greater cover or controlled access. Lady Stark knew the area better than he; perhaps she’d have some ideas.

They weren’t too far out from his troops, he noted. He turned his head to the left, didn’t see Errol, and shifted to the right – swallowing awkwardly when the rough of his scruffy jaw brushed the soft skin of Lady Stark’s temple. He jerked in summons, and Errol pulled up alongside. “Your Grace?”

“Run ahead to camp, locate Berda, and arrange for accommodations for Lady Stark.” He spoke in low tones. “We’ll need a large bowl or bucket of warmed water brought to her tent immediately, bed linens and furs, and a something suitable for night clothing while Lady Stark’s own clothing is adequately cleaned and dried. Find two good men to guard the tent, and inform Berda that she’ll be responsible for Lady Stark’s care until we break camp.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Errol kicked his horse into a rolling canter and followed orders without another word. Good boy, that Errol.

Sansa made a small noise and shifted in his lap, breathing into his neck, and to his absolute chagrin, a bolt of energy shivered down his spine and awakened him in a most humiliating way. Lords above, had his time with the witch, after years of near-celibacy, completely reduced him to the state of a randy youth, fully aroused by the slightest provocation of a redhead young enough to be his daughter? Indulging in carnal feast after a long famine had not been ultimately wise, it appeared. He burned with his embarrassment, shifting uncomfortably, and was exceeding grateful that Sansa was asleep and that there were enough layers of cloth between them that his humiliation was a private one. At least he’d sent the Red Woman away, and he had begun to extract himself from her influence. He forced himself to recall of any number of unpleasant memories to will away the discomfort. _Get a hold of yourself, man._

Thankfully, it was not long before the camp appeared in front of them, and Errol appeared again to lead them towards the tent set up to receive Sansa, while Stannis ignored the curious stares at the redheaded bundle in his arms. Arriving close to the tent, he gritted, a little roughly, “Lady Stark.” Sansa awoke, instantly, but regarded him a little dazedly. “We’ve arrived. Hang on to the reins.” She nodded, blinking, and he quickly dismounted and reached to help her down. She grimaced upon her feet hitting the ground before the look of exhaustion quickly resettled. He ground his teeth. Gods _dammit_. Without a word, he bent his knees and swept her up into his arms. “Berda’s in there?” he barked at Errol, who nodded in confirmation. He marched towards the tent.

It occurred to him that all the insipid stories his daughter enjoyed may have been romanticized by bards spinning exaggerated tales of perfectly pragmatic and practical actions taken by perfectly pragmatic and practical men. He made a note to point out such a possibility to Shireen the next time she read from her books.


	5. Northern Counsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis gets some advice.

Stannis returned from his morning rounds of the camp and headed back to his tent, motioning to Rogers’ youngest son, serving as a camp messenger. “Have Berda report in to my tent.” 

“Yes, m’lord.”

Stannis waited out the woman’s arrival by scowling at his maps. He knew it was the right thing to send Davos ahead with Shireen, but he missed his counsel terribly. Decisions had to be made, and he needed a second set of eyes to review their options.

“Yeh bid me, Yer Grace?” Berda, a stout bull of a woman entered the tent, inclined her head. Berda was not the curtseying type, but he didn’t need her to be.

“Yes, I need the status of the Stark girl.”

“ ’er _status_?” Berda frowned.

He fixed her with an impatient look. “Yes, report on the progress of her well-being.” He’d left the Stark girl under Berda’s more-than-capable care upon arrival at the tent, and he felt his inquiry a perfectly obvious one.

“Ach, well. I treated her feet misself, they’ll heal soon enough. No toes lost. Called for a full bath, the gull looked like she needed the rest of her self warmed and clean.” He’d forgotten to order a bath, he scowled. But of course, that’s why he’d called Berda in; she’d know such details about the care of ladies. “Fell asleep shortly after we got ‘er bundled in linens, before we could get any food into ‘er. But she’s had a full night’s sleep now, and rations this morning. ‘er clothes should arrive soon. She’s as righted to sorts as best I get’er, I suppose.”

“Excellent, have her brought to me when she’s presentable.” He paused at Berda’s reproachful look. “What?”

Berda considered him. “The gull’s ill-used.”

“I’m aware, Berda, but not by me. You said she’s recovered.”

“Din’t say that.” Though appearing somewhat mollified, she pressed on. “I think she’s had bad times.” 

“Yes, her father was beheaded and the rest of her family massacred or missing, I am _aware_ , woman. Get to the point.”

Berda narrowed her eyes right back at him, unimpressed. “Davos inn’t here to smooth yer edges.”

Flummoxed, Stannis gaped at her. “I don’t need Davos here to supervise my interaction with a lady, Berda.”

“Ah’m just sayin’, she’s had a roug’ time of it and I don’ think she needs any more. Ole scars, new bruises, new … cuts. Practice yer fancy court manners, if ye still ‘ave any of ‘em.”

They scowled at each other for a long moment before Stannis sighed, nodded. “Sansa Stark will leave this tent no worse than she enters it, woman, you have my word. Send her along.”

Berda continued to eye him suspiciously, but apparently satisfied, she nodded “Aye, m’lord. Give us an hour-half.”

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Sansa approached the king’s tent with a small amount of trepidation, but pulled herself to her full height. She nodded to the knights manning the door, who lifted the canvas for her.

“Your Grace,” she curtseyed, bowing her head.

“Lady Stark. I’m told you’ve been adequately and competently cared for through the night.” Stannis’ hawk eyes looked up from a scroll in his hands and flicked over her, and it took every ounce of her mother’s training to not blanch under his gaze. 

“Yes, Your Grace. Berda was quite attentive. Thank you.”

“I am … very glad to hear it, my lady. We wish you offer you as much… comfort as we can.” Stannis’ tone was a little stiff, she thought, as if his mouth was unused to forming the words. He cleared his throat. “I feel we have a lot to discuss, but first I need to ask a question of strategy with a Northerner.” 

“Strategy, Your Grace?” Sansa blinked. “With me?”

“My hand is on his way to the Wall and you’re the only Northerner I’ve access to at the moment.” He cast a hand at his maps. “I’ve had a raven from your brother.” He gestured to the parchment in his hand. ”There’s been some sort of confrontation with the Wildlings, and he’s requested my presence and emergency reinforcements. He did not strike me as an alarmist in my dealings with him, and so I’m inclined to answer his call – we’ve you to deliver, in any case. But I’ve decisions to make about what how best to divide our resources. I still plan to take Winterfell, and then King’s Landing, but we suffered heavy losses with the deserters due to the weather and the Bolton sabotage.”  Sansa blinked at him, and he gestured again at his maps. “If you could take a look at the map and see if you have any ideas where my army may set up camp without imminent threat of death by snow or Bolton.”

Sansa stared at the King as if he’d asked her to lead his troops into battle. Was he serious? “I have little experience with the needs of a military encampment, Your Grace.”

“And yet,” he gritted, with increasing impatience.

Sansa approached the table tentatively, scanning the rolled out parchment and hoping inspiration would strike. She hadn’t even been in the North herself for years, and now the fate of an army was resting on her shoulders? She took a steadying breath, and forced herself to take her time gauging the layout of the land with her memories of the terrain. Her eyes flicked from the markings of villages and castles, trying to recall whose lands were whose. Eventually, she reached out and tapped a space of the map west of the Kingsroad, northeast of Deepwood Motte, in a region marked by mountains. “Perhaps here.”

King Stannis circled around the table to peer with her. “Why there?” 

“It’s not on the map, and from the Kingsroad those mountains appear very dense, but there’s a small valley in its midst. There’s a less-travelled road that we would often use to traverse to Bear Island. My father would have us stop in there to rest. In the summer it’s rather lovely. There are some buildings already set up for occasional travellers to seek shelter there – “ she paused, “But I don’t want to presume that that would be adequate for an army this size.”

Stannis waved a hand. “What else?”

“There are also tunnels,” she indicated, running her finger along the ridge. “Under the mountains. I can’t speak to the food stores there are the moment; the tunnels are often used for grain storage, but I do not know how preparations for winter have continued in all of this conflict, or if the Boltons know about them. But they could be useful to take cover in storms. And there’s a spring for water and animals for hunting in the surrounding woods, and land for grazing if there’s no snow.” She pointed out various elements in the map.

“I see.” He nodded, encouraging her to offer a final tentative opinion.

“I have not been in the North for years, and cannot speak to allegiances since my brother’s end at the Twins.” She swallowed. “But it would be harder for Ramsey to sabotage your troops that distance from Winterfell, and,” she pointed at the nearest strongholds, “Houses Glover at Deepwood Motte and the Mormonts of the island have been loyal to House Stark for a thousand years.” Was any of that even true anymore? Was anyone loyal, now? “At least, they were.”

The king made a noise that seemed half disgruntled, half… amused? “Aye, I think it’s safe to say Mormont’s allegiances haven’t shifted.” At her questioning look, he elaborated. “I’ve had ravens from Lady Mormont that indicated that with no Stark in Winterfell, Bear Island was its own kingdom, for the foreseeable future.”

Sansa allowed herself a ghost of a smile, before hiding it again. “Perhaps she’ll be willing to help aid in setting up and protecting your camp, then. I don’t think they’re a large force, but they know the area.”

“Perhaps. I fooled myself into believing I’d be able to mount a northern campaign without the help of Northerners, it seems. Hubris.” The king cleared his throat, walked back to the other side of the table, gesturing for knights at the door to come forward. “Send a team of scouts out immediately, to here,” he pointed. “Scan the valley and evaluate Lady Stark’s recollections of the area and the suitability for the army.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Quickly.” The men hustled out of the tent, and Stannis gestured to a chair. “Sit, if you will, Lady Stark. I’d like a full accounting of your time since your father’s death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borrowed a good bit of this from book wikis, as in the book Stannis listened to Jon's counsel to get Northern support, and freed Deepwood Motte? Anyway, the usual *handwaves*, I am as much a military expert as Sansa.


	6. Taking Care of Business (Every Day!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis ties up some loose ends.

_The girl looked a godsdamned faerie princess,_ Stannis mused irritably. She’d obviously been attractive even in her disarray the day prior, but a night’s rest had done her immense justice – the heavy bags under her eyes cleared, soft waves of copper hair brushed and simply swept back, fair skin blotchy from exertion, cold, and tears now even and creamy in tone. The longest, wispiest lashes he’d ever seen fluttered around eyes of soft, dreamy blue. No wonder even his fool brother had instantly marked her as destined to be his good-daughter. But those eyes were intelligent, guarded, and incongruously hard, and that in addition to her decidedly regal bearing, grounded her as something much more than some insubstantial fair maiden.

Stannis prided himself on his ability to discern a person’s true character and accurately evaluate their strengths and weakness – it was, in his opinion, the backbone strength of his army. (Melisandre was arguably an exception, of course. But deep down he’d known what she was; he’d just been embarrassingly susceptible to her seductions and recklessly ignored his instincts in pursuit of his wanton lust and single-minded fixation on the throne.) He was aware enough of his newfound weakness with the fairer sex, though, and the general precariousness of a Northern campaign, to send scouts to verify Sansa’s information and evaluate with military expertise before mobilizing his troops, but his instincts told him that her advice had been sound. He already began planning how he was going to divvy up his forces between the valley and the Wall in the back of his mind while Sansa quietly recounted her experiences.

His eyes took another sweep of her person. Bruises, Berda had said. _Cuts_. It wasn’t as if Berda was a shy and retiring personality, but the damage would have to be rather severe to have her take that kind of tone with him, to activate that deep a sense of protectiveness over a girl she’d just met. He could see none, with her neatly covered from the neck down in gown, cloak, and gloves. He didn’t tend to enjoy the company of most men, as he had little patience to suffer fools, but still found it hard to understand how any man lucky enough to have been gifted this lovely, self-possessed woman as a bride would then mistreat her to such an extent. He cast back to his own cold, unsentimental wedding and Selyse’s sallow, drawn face and utter lack of charm, switching it to Sansa in his mind’s eye. Oh, he probably would have hurt her, too, with negligence or curt thoughtlessness; he had no illusions about his capability as a doting or sensitive husband. But what sort of man was he dealing with in Ramsey Bolton, who would choose to hurt a woman like this, a woman barely more than a girl, and with that kind of violence? A man charged with the holy duty of care and protection of that woman, a woman who bore him no threat? How deep was that man’s capability of cruelty? A current of anger began to hum in his veins, but he struggled to keep it banked, focussing instead on asking follow-up questions to Sansa’s tale.

“Excuse me, Lady Stark, but you were also married to Tyrion Lannister, prior to Bolton?” His network of spies had never been rigorous, and his movements north had compromised his intelligence gathering. There seemed rather large gaps.

“Yes, Your Grace, after the Battle of Blackwater. Joffrey set me aside for Margaery Tyrell. He did so at Tywin Lannister’s direction.”  

“Tyrion Lannister is dead, then?”

“Not to my knowledge. It’s possible. But Lord Baelish said he murdered Tywin after his conviction for Joffrey’s death and disappeared, after we left.” 

Stannis frowned. “Then how did you end up remarried?”

Sansa blushed and averted her eyes for the first time. “My marriage to Tyrion Lannister was never consummated. He protested the marriage on the grounds of my age, and, I believe, on the principle of my having to marry the family that had just murdered my kinsmen in a violation of guest rights. By all laws of the North, at least, I was free to marry.” 

“I see.” He’d be the last to categorize any Lannister as either a fool or a saint, but Tyrion Lannister appeared willing to nominate himself for consideration. “Ramsey Bolton did not afford you that same privilege, I presume?” It was a statement of fact more than a question, and Sansa’s eyes came back to his, hard and cold.

“No. He did not.”

Stannis coughed, uncomfortable with the implication in her voice. “May I ask why you agreed to marry the Bolton bastard in the first place?”

“I didn’t want to. But Lord Baelish told me that you were coming, and the move would at least return me to my home. When Ramsey boasted of his successful sabotage, though, I was afraid help was no longer coming, and found my marriage… intolerable.”

“I see.” Stannis rubbed his temple, sat back, and considered her. “I can annul the marriage, of course, but the matter will be settled either way when I take Winterfell. I promised your brother Roose Bolton’s head on stick,” he recalled, with some relish, “and it will be no matter for his bastard to join him. Can you tell me anything of his forces, or anything else of note within Winterfell?”

“I believe Roose said he had a force of 5000 men, and he was counting on my marriage to secure more. Walda Bolton is pregnant.” Her gaze remained steady. “And Ramsey Bolton is a less a man than a monster.”

Stannis took a moment to hold her gaze and consider her words, before nodding. “Thank you, Lady Stark. I hope to right this situation, oust the usurpers, and install you as Wardenness of the North as soon as possible.” He gestured to a knight at the door. “Bring the Tarth woman.” 

He stood to pour both of them something to drink while they waited. “Your brother’s raven has made the decision of the Greyjoy traitor’s fate  - he will take the black and defend the wall. I have another captor whose fate is yet unclear, however.” He handed her a cup, returned behind his table. “I hope you will help me settle the matter once and for all.”

Sansa studied him, bemused. “Your Grace?”

He waved a hand. “It’ll wait until she arrives. No point going through it twice.” He sat in silence and reviewed his maps, continuing his militia calculations, and absolutely did _not_ watch Sansa out of the corner of his eye. He did _not_ watch her small hands twist nervously around the cups, nor admire how her hair reflected the light of the fire. He had many other concerns to attend to.

Thankfully, the Tarth woman appeared presently. “Ach, let’s get this over with then.”

Brienne of Tarth looked to Sansa in some surprise, and Sansa mirrored her look. “Lady Sansa!”

“Yes, Lady Brienne, thanks to your information we were able to retrieve Lady Stark from Winterfell.” Stannis stood. “Of course, now I must choose what to do with you. I can hardly have you running around trying to murder me when I’m in the middle of a campaign.”

*~*

Sansa recognized Brienne of Tarth immediately – she was a unique character, of course – and suddenly recalled the other woman’s words in the tavern. _Renly was murdered by a shadow,_ she’d claimed in defense of an accusation of murder. _A shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon._ Sansa was suddenly chilled.

The enormous woman pulled herself to her full height and glowered down at the king; the king, for his part, appeared unruffled. “As you’ll recall from when we last spoke, it had been my impression that you had murdered Renly, Lady Brienne. The Stormlander men passed along that information, the prevailing story that you had caught wind of how my brother spoke of you behind your back and you lost your wits and stabbed _him_ in the back.” Brienne’s head reared, but Stannis continued briskly. “My brothers could both be very charming, Brienne, and it is no particular surprise you would be won over by Renly. But he was prone to superficiality and duplicitousness. I’m sure he enjoyed your devotion very much, even if he did truly not respect you for it. I do question your sense and good judgement to support him when he challenged my claim to the throne.”

Brienne replied, stiffly, “The lords of the Stormlands all supported Renly –“

“Lady Stark,” Stannis cut in, turning to his guest. “You had three brothers of your own, did you not?”

Sansa started, surprised by the quick shift of attention. “I did, Your Grace.”

“Imagine if after Robb had fallen, the youngest – what was his name?”

“Rickon.”

“Imagine if after Robb had fallen, Rickon had risen up in arms against your father’s second son instead of banding with him against those who had struck him down. Would you approve? Would your mother and father?”

“… No, your Grace, I don’t think I would. That they would.” She glanced at him, at Brienne, and added a quick caveat. “Of course, my time away from the North has shown me that not all families are like mine.”  

“Of course, but the principle stands.” Stannis turned back to Brienne. “I conferred with my Hand after we spoke and learned that the Red Priestess had taken action in my name of which I did not approve, though I will admit I’m glad I did not have to kill my own men due to my brother’s reckless sense of entitlement. Still, I must hold myself responsible for allowing such things to occur under my command.” He sat again. “Your dogged devotion to Renly and his memory is somewhat admirable, if naïve and ill-advised. On the other hand, your subsequent attachment to Catelyn Stark and commitment to honour your promises even after her death speak well of you. Unfortunately, as I said, I can’t have a dramatic, overly-principled and vengeful giantess running amok with my murder on her mind, can I?”  

Brienne’s face remained stony and silent, but Sansa could sense conflicting sense of nerves and anger fighting under the surface. 

“I am willing to admit that I was wrong about your guilt in my brother’s murder, if you are willing to admit that you may have been misled in the matter as well. Lady Stark has long been at the mercy of her enemies, now, and it strikes me that she may feel better with personally dedicated protection, independent of my army.” He rest his shrewd eyes at the Tarth woman. “If you are amenable to bending the knee to her, and by extension honour her alliance with me, I will forgo punishment for your past treason - in exchange for your word that you will refrain from taking my head. Provided, of course, that Lady Stark agrees.”

Brienne stood stock still for a long moment. Then, abruptly, she turned and kneeled before Sansa. “Lady Sansa, I offer my services once again. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”   

Sansa swallowed, considering her response. Having her own protection seemed wise. The woman, though awkward, was seemingly capable enough to be Renly’s Kingsguard, and her earnest heart appeared in the right place. She was sympathetic to the notion of misplacing your trust in the wrong man – and, the little voice in her head told her, it would be good to have someone inclined to be suspicious of the king and his motives in her corner. She felt an overwhelming instinct to trust Stannis Baratheon herself, and knew it was wiser to have a clear-eyed, neutral ally to counter that, less she be led astray by her own foolish nature once again. Stannis had many things speak in his favour - her father's support, and shared enemies across the realm, a large army and an honest, straightforward manner. But she needed to be more careful with her future than she had been with her past, and begin to build her own security.

She arose, and cleared her throat.  “Lady Brienne, you do me honour with your offer. I accept your sword to my service. I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and... and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise.”

“Excellent, I’m glad to have this nonsense settled.” Stannis gestured to the door impatiently. “If you’ll return Lady Stark to her tent and stand watch over her, Lady Brienne. I’ve rather a lot of work to do.” He directed a curt, but respectful, nod to Sansa, and turned to his papers with a quill. Dismissed, Sansa moved towards the door, but paused at the King’s words at the door. “I'd advise more rest, Lady Stark. We leave this place at dawn.”


	7. Taking Care of Business (Every Way!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna Mormont graces us with her presence.

> _Lady Mormont,_
> 
> _I have recently escaped the usurpers in Winterfell and am now accompanied by Stannis Baratheon, who plans to return me personally to the protection of my brother Jon Snow, Lord High Commander of the Watch. His Grace has told me you have expressed staunch and unwavering support of House Stark even in these dark times, and I am grateful to hear it. Circumstances require the Baratheon army must temporarily fall back from their mission to liberate Winterfell from the Boltons. I would not presume military support from Bear Island during final preparations for winter, but it is my hope that you will be able to help the King garrison his troops in the hills of Bear Pass while we make the trip to Castle Black._
> 
> _We head to Bear Pass this morn. I look forward to meeting you; your mother was a formidable woman, and I am honoured she stood with my brother until his last day._
> 
> _The North remembers._
> 
> _Lady Sansa Stark_

Stannis scanned Lady Stark’s missive, penned at his request, and frowned, reading it again. It was more tentative than he’d expected, but admittedly he was more used to issuing orders day-to-day, and was secure in his position. Sansa was clearly less comfortable making firm declarations or orders, at least in writing. She had not declared herself Wardenness of the North, either because she felt she couldn’t – or shouldn’t – until she held Winterfell again, or because she didn’t want to alienate Northerners who might dig in their heels at the implication she’d already knelt to a Southorn king. But in a few short lines, she’d referenced House Stark’s long-held commitment to the wellbeing of the Watch (and by extension, his) to the family of the former Lord High Commander, and both invoked and paid appreciation for past Stark fealty while acknowledging and honouring losses already made. 

Ultimately the note was evidence of a diplomatic talent that he himself lacked. _“_ _Practice yer fancy court manners, if ye still ‘ave any of ‘em,”_ Berda echoed in his ears.  Stannis grimaced. Charm and diplomacy did not come naturally to him, and between the matching bookends of Robert and Renly, it had often felt useless ever trying to get a word in edgewise; he’d never be as good as them at it, so he focussed on his strengths. He didn’t regret it overmuch; he was who he was, and he was unlikely to become _charming_ at his age. But diplomacy was a skill, and like any kind of muscle, any skill could be practiced.

In any case, it had pleased him that Lady Stark had demonstrated herself thus far to be as intelligent and canny as she was, far from some shallow lady pampered to uselessness in the South. It was clear to him that, rather than gracing his army as mere decoration as a symbol of House Stark, she would be worth much more to him as an active negotiator in dealings with the Northmen.

And though it grated to admit, he had to consider that it would be wise to practice his own diplomacy skills, if he was going to be King. He glanced over at Sansa, mounting her horse with the aid of the Tarth woman’s squire. He somehow found it easier than with most to keep his grouchiness in check with her, though he didn’t know whether to attribute it to her broad strategic value, Berda’s terse reproach, or a general sympathy for her trials at an age so close to Shireen's. Sansa’s hair flashed bright red in the morning light, and for some irrational reason, Proudwing popped into his mind. He blinked it away. Ridiculous sentimentality.

Perhaps he could  _practice_ such diplomacy skills with her, try to get those unused muscles into better shape, if for no other reason than a solid relationship with her could only help him achieve his current goals. He scowled. Of course, he had little to no idea how or where to start.  

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

It was a bright and fine day, the kind of day where the air had a bite but the sky blue. Sansa sat astride a beautiful chestnut mount, flanked on either side by Podrick and Brienne. She remembered Podrick from her days as Tyrion’s half-wife, of course, and he kept her amused on the trip with tales of Brienne’s attempts to train him up as a knight as Brienne, solemn as ever, appeared ready to consider every one of Stannis’ men a mortal threat to her person. This also amused Sansa, and she appreciated the inclination, but truth be told the men of Stannis’ army seemed to want to give her a wide berth, either from respect or distrust she wasn’t quite sure – but either way she took the opportunity to breathe in the scenery of the Northlands.

 A few hours in to their ride, Brienne seemed to relax infinitesimally. “Are we expecting any reception at this outpost, my lady?”

“I’m not sure, Lady Brienne. I’m told the Mormonts have remained staunch supporters of House Stark since my father’s death. Lord Baelish mentioned them in his accounts of the rise and fall of my brother’s campaigns, and the king has indicated the current Lady Mormont remains faithful to the point of spurning him. I wrote a note to accompany his raven to Bear Island requesting their support – but many of their forces were wiped out at the Red Wedding, I believe,” Sansa concluded grimly. “They may not have the resources to spare. However, of the entire north, the Mormonts are the house most likely to answer the call of a daughter of House Stark.” 

Brienne’s curiosity was piqued. “Why is that, my lady?”

“The territory of Bear Island is particularly vulnerable to raids from the Iron Islands. By some necessity, the people there have developed a tradition of warrior women who are more than capable of defending themselves.  You’d get along with them quite well, I think.” Sansa smiled tentatively at Brienne. “The previous Lady of Bear Island, Maege, was a fearsome woman whom my sister _idolized._ Arya wanted to be fostered at the Island very badly,” Sansa recalled wistfully, before composing herself.  “But the new Lady Mormont is but a child herself;  last I met her, she was just a babe  – I know not who she is now. While House Mormont is more likely than almost any other to back a woman, I can’t assume anything. Northerners are just as likely to think me a traitor for any number of reasons: my time spent in the South, either of my marriages, even this alliance with the Baratheon army.”

Brienne took this in. “I see.”

Sansa smiled, trying to reassure her. “My father always said Northerners are different. More loyal. Prepare for the worst, Lady Brienne, but we can also hope for the best.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

As it turned out, it was neither the worst, nor the best, but somewhere in between.

Lady Mormont, tiny and fierce, faced off with her entourage of advisors against Stannis, Sansa, and their assorted support. A child of ten, with a serious face that did not seem prone to smiles, eyed them in silence, a maester hovering at her side. “Lord Baratheon, I presume.”

“Lady Mormont,” Stannis nodded a greeting in return, tone noncommittal, his face resting in his own naturally stern demeanour. Sansa intuited that he felt ill-inclined to be solicitous to someone who had already firmly rejected his requests for support.   

Sansa broke in with a smile. “Lady Mormont, we are well-met. I remember coming to Bear Island for your birth.”

Lady Mormont lifted a single brow. “Lady… Bolton, is it not? Or is it Lannister? I’ve heard conflicting reports.”

 _Ah, it’s to be like that, is it?_ Sansa refused her a reaction, though her voice cooled several degrees. “’Twere that I had received an upbringing such as the ladies of your island, Lady Mormont, I may not have had to make the decisions I did to survive. But I am a Stark, and will always be a Stark.”

“Lady Stark’s marriage status is inconsequential,” Stannis interrupted flatly, as his mount shifted and stomped its foot impatiently. “Her compelled marriage to the Imp was a farce and I’ve annulled the Bolton travesty. But if the houses of the North won’t accept my authority on the matter, I’ll have both Boltons’ heads in a month’s time and it will be settled either way.”

Sansa smiled inwardly. Coming from so many men, that sort of statement could sound like a foolish boast, but coming from the King, it sounded like a simple promise, delivered as matter of fact. The effect was wholly reassuring.

Lyanna Mormont appeared to feel the same way, and took another moment to reappraise him. “Is that so? But you’re retreating north?”

Stannis grimaced. “I’d rather not, but circumstances warrant it. Lady Stark’s recovery coincided with an urgent message from the Wall, and I have promised to return her to safety while I confer with the High Commander of the Watch. I’d like not to tire the bulk of my men needlessly, and we’ll make our trip much faster with a smaller party - but if we cannot set up a garrison safely here we’ll return en masse to the North and then back again to take Winterfell.”

Lyanna Mormont considered him. “And you do not want our bannermen to join your forces.” It was less question than statement.

“ _’Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark_.’" Stannis parroted dryly. “Your message was received, Lady Mormont, but I would hope that that very noble sense of allegiance would extend at least as far as helping those men who _are_ willing to take up arms to free Winterfell and return a Stark to its walls.”

Sansa interjected, smoothly. “Lady Mormont, I was told that many of your people fell at the betrayal at the Twins, including your lady mother. You have already lost much to this war, and winter is coming. While I was with the Boltons I did not get the impression that preparations for the season were their priority, so there must be much work to do. But if you can spare some aid in preparing the Baratheon army to survive in this terrain until his return, I would consider it material support to House Stark in our effort to retake our home from those who have stolen it.”

Lady Mormont silently considered them both, the troops behind them, and sent a quick affirming glance to the maester at her side, appearing to come to a decision. “Lady Stark, you do Bear Island insult with the assumption that we will not fight by your side when the time comes. House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years, and we will not break that faith today. We have not many men, but you will recall that one man from Bear Island is worth ten mainlanders.” A ghost of a smile twitched at her lips, and Sansa found herself returning it. “Come, let us get your army settled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I feel like the show played up the “I’m sure you’ll be beautiful like your mother” awkwardness as a bit to play up the sheer force of Lyanna Mormont for comedic effect, but if Sansa had met the Mormonts and/or been to Bear Island before, I think she’d be more than aware of their culture than to misstep like that
> 
> \- I also think that Baelish would have discussed events of Robb’s campaign and the part different houses played in it on the way up to Winterfell so she wasn’t going in totally blind
> 
> \- Since the show went from insisting that the onset of winter forced Stannis march “now or never” in Season 5 to the Starks running around the north raising their bannermen in Season 6 (with still little snow to speak of by the Battle of the Bastards) I’m taking my cues that there’s time to press on Winterfell before winter *truly* hits with a vengeance


	8. The North Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A road-trip chat.

“You dealt with the Mormont well.” Sansa looked to her left, surprised, as Stannis pulled his destrier next to hers. Podrick fell back, but Brienne remained steady at her side, glowering just a bit out of the corner of her eye. Stannis’ jaw was working, as if he was uncomfortable completing some dreaded task.

They’d been on the road for a few hours, making their way up an old, narrow and winding trail that cut through the northeastern mountains, at Lyanna Mormont’s suggestion.. It was half-hunting-route, half winding route to the wall, used by mostly local folk when who didn’t want to backtrack to a more southern access point to the King’s Road. They were hosted by a small retinue of Bear Island men familiar with the trail, and a few of Stannis’ own trusted swords leading surrounding Theon, but they’d kept the bulk of their men down in the Bear Pass clearing in order to make the trip as quickly as possible. Stannis had seemed grateful for the option; after the sabotage to his troops, he appeared keen to camouflage his movements as much as possible.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa managed in return. “But I think the Mormonts were more inclined than most to be loyal.”

“I’ve had more luck pulling a mule across a mudfield in a rainstorm than get support from your father’s bannermen,” Stannis replied flatly, casting a brief look at her before returning his gaze to the path ahead. “So from my perspective I witnessed a miracle.”

Sansa ruthlessly repressed her unexpected amusement at his very _annoyed_ tone.  “If I may, Your Grace, I think I see one major sticking point in your relations with the houses of the North.”

“Oh?” Nonplussed, he sent another look sideways. 

“You are far too much like them, without being one of them.” Sansa failed at keeping an amused twist from her lips at his indignant scowl. “It was not an insult, Your Grace.”

“I am their _King_ , Lady Stark.”  

“You are Robert Baratheon’s rightful successor to the Iron Throne,” she corrected, mild. “And King in the North if the bannermen choose to kneel.” Stannis’ scowl deepened quite viciously, and Sansa swallowed her nerves to carry on. “I have faith that they will likely be convinced in time, Your Grace. But – correct me if I’m wrong – you are someone who sees the value in someone proving one’s worth, with deeds, and not just words.”

“Aye,” Stannis grunted, grinding his teeth. “True enough.”

“I was not here when my brother was declared King of the North,” Sansa continued, tentative. “And I have only recently returned. But the North knelt to the Targaryens, and then Targaryens kidnapped my aunt, and killed by grandfather and my uncle. My father knelt to your brother after he helped provide justice for those crimes, and then my father was murdered by a Baratheon after kneeling to him.” Sansa held up a hand to Stannis’ protest. “Joffrey was no true Baratheon, but he believed he was, and Tommen must also be one to keep his throne. The North remembers, Your Grace, and the North doesn’t know you; to them you are yet another Baratheon from the South. But I believe you have are on the correct path to earn the North’s allegiance, just as Robert did. Restore Winterfell, free it from the Boltons, provide justice to House Stark, and I believe you’ll earn the confidence of the northern houses to rally against the Lannisters once again.” She looked at him directly, raised a brow. “And I think we both know the houses are hardly as likely to clamour for me as they did for Robb.”

“You have no wish to be Queen of the North, then, Lady Stark?” Stannis replied, casting his eyes around before turning his hawk eyes on hers.

“I just want to go home, my lord,” Sansa replied softly, looking away to the mountain ranges. “My foolish desire to be a queen died with my lord father.”   They rode in silence for a few moments before she continued. “I believe you had as much to do with Lady Mormont’s change of heart as I did, Your Grace. I think that if you try to remind yourself that you have much in common with Northerners, it will guide you in your dealings with them. Ask what would earn your own loyalty, and do that.”

Stannis took that in, twisted his lips in thought, and considered her. “Thank you, Lady Stark. That is helpful.”  

Pleased, she slowly smiled at him. “You’re quite welcome, Your Grace.” He flushed, embarrassed, and looked away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

Stannis felt the direct hit of Sansa’s smile in a hot streak down his back and, mortifyingly, it echoed a pulse deep into his cock. _By the gods_ , he swore to himself, breaking their eye contact. _Where did that come from?_ He had packed the humiliating incident of the ride back to camp deep into the recesses of his conscious dignity and done his best to forget it, chalking it up to a purely male reaction to the close proximity to a woman - but one smile had undone all that work. The only other woman who had ever unnerved him by that kind of thing alone, had been Melisandre – but her eyes had been sly and knowing, and her slow smile extended an invitation. But Sansa’s eyes were clear, her smile sweet and tentative. There was no reason for his body to react like this, other than his recent return to sexual famine. Gods, he _had_ been ruined.

Flustered, he missed her next question. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Your family, Your Grace. Your daughter and lady wife. I will meet them at Castle Black?” Sansa was curious, friendly. She didn’t know.

“My daughter,” he responded gruffly. “My wife passed on our way down from the Wall.” Perversely, he grasped the opportunity to wallow in the grim scene of his wife’s death, ruthlessly using it to tamp down his humiliating arousal.

Sansa’s eyes widened, taken aback. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t know, no one – my condolences.” He nodded, curtly, and when he didn’t elaborate she tentatively pressed, “May I ask what happened? The weather, the Bolton sabotage…”

“She was unwell,” he tersely responded, avoiding her eyes.

Sansa frowned. “Unwell.”

He worked his jaw, knowing that the word covered all manner of sins, but he knew that if Sansa was going to be spending time with Shireen in his absence, then it was best that she knew the circumstances before Shireen had to tell her. “My wife was devoted to the Lord of Light, and by extension the priestess who served him and guided my army. The priestess claimed she had a vision that involved burning my daughter at the stake in sacrifice to aid our troops. When I refused to indulge them in this madness, my wife lost herself to her own and ran into the flames.”

“My gods,” Sansa breathed. “How horrible.”  

Stannis saw the Tarth woman keenly studying him, but ignored it. “Quite.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Your Grace.” 

Stannis was brusque. “My marriage was one of duty, Lady Stark, and I am only glad my daughter did not perish for my folly.”

“Your folly?”

“Melisandre was here by my desire alone, for her promises to deliver me the Iron Throne. Her support gave me early victories, more than I knew” - he thought on Renly - “but her God seemed to disappear when we marched on Winterfell, and the cost He asked was too high.”

Sansa rode in silence. “I can’t speak on the Lord of Light, or His favour, or if your priestess aided you in the South. But you are in the North now, and the old gods remain powerful here. The North remembers, after all.”

The men ahead of them began to speed up as the path widened, and rounding a corner, suddenly, the Wall appeared in full view.

“Open the gates!” the Bear Island men began to call, and the party kicked their horses into action and bore down on the entrance to the castle.

Sansa sent a vaguely apologetic look Stannis’ way before she urged her horse forward, breaking even with the Bear Mountain men and wheeling her mount into the courtyard, Brienne and Podrick hot on her heels. She looked around, searching, as Stannis rode in behind her, just in time to see her dismount and launch herself into the arms of Jon Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I don't care about events of 803: (*SPOILERS*) the Lord of Light and his stupid child-sacrificing priestess can bite me.)


	9. Reunions

Stannis dismounted and pat his horse, keeping an eye on the prolonged embrace. He felt the smallest of twinges at the sight – her _brother_ , he chided himself, and then chided himself for even having a twinge – before wholly distracted by the small cannon that launched into him. “Father!”

Taken aback, Stannis placed an awkward arm around his daughter’s back. “Shireen?” His daughter was always pleased to greet him, and his presence hadn’t been expected, but rarely was she so… demonstrative. Was this due to being free of her mother’s presence, or to the trauma of her loss, or…

“I’m so glad you’re here, Father, it’s been _awful.”_

Stannis laid a tentative hand on her hair, and searched out Davos, who was hurriedly making his way down a set of stairs and looking rather grim. “What’s happened?”

“Welcome back to Castle Black, Your Grace,” Davos replied. “Shireen and I were preparing a raven to you just now. There have been… developments,” he finished. Stannis eyed his Hand: his grave face belied his even tone.

“What kind of developments?” Stannis asked, taking in the solemn stares of assorted men around the courtyard.  Two men had paused from taking rope down from the gallows, and there was a strange tension in the air.

“It’s… complicated. I’m glad you’re here, a raven wouldn’t do it justice. But why have you come?”

Stannis gently extricated himself from Shireen, noting her agitated countenance, and gestured to the Stark reunion towards the back of the courtyard. “We found Lady Stark shortly after you left. We had to relocate the troops before returning her to Lord Snow.”

Davos’ eyes rounded, startled, and he looked closer at the redhead across the way. Jon Snow had tears in his eyes, brushing her hair back and cupping her face, before pulling her back into an embrace. “You found her!”

“Yes, though not before she married. It will be righted soon enough.” Stannis began to lead Davos and his daughters over to the reunited siblings.

“The army?”

“Temporarily retreated and garrisoned in Bear Pass. A necessary evil, but one I hope I’m able to gain advantage from.”

Davos’ follow-up question was interrupted by their party’s arrival at the Stark siblings, who broke apart, teary and smiling.

“Your Grace!” Jon managed. “Thank you for finding her, bringing her here.” Sansa smiled at him and squeezed his arm.

“You’re welcome, Lord Commander Snow.” Stannis replied. He noted a flicker on the young man’s face, but carried on. “Lady Stark, may I present the Princess Shireen, and my hand, Ser Davos Seaworth.” Sansa smiled sweetly at his daughter and nodded to Davos, who managed a welcoming twinkle at her, in his kindly way.

“A pleasure, milady.”   

The young Lord Commander suddenly froze, his face a thundercloud. “ _Greyjoy_ ,” he growled, moving to advance on Theon, shamefacedly standing back by the horses. Stannis and Sansa both moved to stop him, Stannis with a hand up, Sansa gripping his arm.

“The Greyjoy traitor will take the black in exchange for his crimes,” Stannis commanded. “He escaped execution by aiding Lady Stark’s escape from Lord Bolton’s custody.”

Anguished, Lord Snow protested, “But he _betrayed_ Robb and _murdered_ Bran and Rickon-”

“He says he didn’t,” Sansa interrupted quietly. “He betrayed Robb, but the bodies he displayed were boys from the village. But he also doesn’t know where they are now.”

“I’m under the impression that the Wall desperately needs more men,” Stannis continued. “He’ll serve out the rest of his days here.”

“The Wall hardly needs more the likes of him,” Jon spat. Mildly surprised by the tone of the Commander, Stannis took in the array of men surrounding the yard, and the heavy tension that seemed to emanate from them. Something had gone on here, obviously. Incongruously, Stannis noted, the new leader of the Wildlings, the redheaded giant Tormund, hovered just to the left, keenly interested in the Tarth woman - though his expression hardened when he met Stannis’ eye. _Ach_ , Stannis thought. _Two giants with a common grudge._ That might have to be dealt with.

Davos’ eyes also darted around. “Your Grace, I think it best we go inside and… catch each other up.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed. “Follow me.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Stannis paced as Jon and Edd attempted a recount of the doomed evacuation of Hardhome. Shireen and Sansa sat in an alcove to the side, by the fire, the direwolf Ghost settling alertly at their feet. The beast had stuck quite close to his daughter, slipping up the stairs behind the party as they retreated into the King’s Tower, where they would have privacy. The animal was also quite content to let Sansa scratch his ears. He wasn’t precisely thrilled about having them present for this conversation, but Jon and Davos had been jumpy and insistent that they both stay within sight. Brienne of Tarth was posted at the door to the Tower, ever vigilant.

“I’m not sure how I could possibly describe it, Your Grace, but after the Night King slaughtered the village, he lifted his hand, and they all rose, and attacked us; instantly everyone we lost became one of them. We retreated, got a few thousand out, but most of the Wildlings now march with the army of the dead. That army grows with everyone they encounter, they don’t tire, and they march south. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands.”

Stannis closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. “When will they reach the wall?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace.”

“They can’t swim?”

“No.”

“At least there’s that,” Stannis muttered. “The Wall will slow them.”

“But not forever, Your Grace. Winter is coming, and the army of the dead is coming with it.”

Stannis stared into the fire, jaw working. “Yes. One war after the other, it appears. That Tarly I spoke to, Samwell, he said they can be killed with dragonglass.”

“Yes, dragonglass, Valeryan steel, and of course, fire. The Wildlings have long burned their dead so they do not rise again.’

Stannis sighed. “One war at a time. So, the Wildlings you brought back, they’re under your protection, Lord Commander? And the men of the Watch have accepted it.” It was more of a statement, not a question, but he was greeted with awkward silence.  He looked up to catch Davos and Snow exchanging looks. “What is it?”

Haltingly, Davos explained that he and Shireen had found Jon Snow’s body in the snow a few nights previously, stabbed multiple times by mutinous men of the Watch, how a small group of loyalist men had dragged his body inside and barricaded themselves in the room against the uprisers. Stannis stared at Davos in growing horror, realizing that Shireen had been sent to the wall for safety only to find herself in the middle of a bloody mutiny of rapists and thieves. “The men you sent with us, most of them were knocked out and locked up before the attack – but Ghost never left Shireen’s side, Your Grace,” Davos rushed to reassure him. “Nor did I.”

Stannis looked over to his daughter, who tried to smile at him reassuringly, but her lips quivered. Sansa reached out quietly and rest a hand on hers. “That must have been very scary to go through,” Stannis heard her mutter softly. “You were very brave.”

Stannis pulled his eyes back to Jon. “You seem healthy for a man recently stabbed.”

Jon flushed, and Davos grit his teeth. “The Red Woman.”

Stannis quirked a brow. “Healed you, did she?”

“She…” Jon coughed. “You see, Your Grace… I...”

“He died,” Davos bit out. “He was dead. The red woman brought him back to life.”

Both Sansa and Stannis froze. “Died?” Sansa repeated, horrified. Jon did not seem to want to look at her.

Davos looked Stannis directly in the eye, though. “She said he had a role to play at Winterfell. She said she saw him there.”

“Did she?” Stannis asked, slowly, considering. “Well, at least the woman - and her God - have taken to giving life, instead of taking it.” All the same, he eyed Jon warily. The man didn’t seem different – well, he seemed shaken and nervous under his gaze – but Melisandre’s witchcraft had rarely seemed to spring from a good place. “Where is Melisandre now?”

“Gone,” Davos replied shortly. “Left in the cover of night almost immediately after raising Jon. Said it was best for her to leave.”

Stannis absorbed the conflicting feelings. Abandonment, betrayal, but also great relief. He’d been concerned how he was going to both send her away and maintain the allegiance of her followers in his camp, but this provided a neutral option. He considered Jon again.  “A role to play at Winterfell, eh? As Lord Commander of the Watch?”

“I’m no longer Lord Commander, Your Grace,” Jon replied stiffly.

“No?” Stannis quirked a brow.

Jon’s mouth settled into a firm line, and Stannis recognized the flash of the sting of betrayal in his eyes. “My vows to the Watch ended at death. And I died, at the hands of my own men. My place is no longer here. I was preparing to leave, just as you arrived.”

“And what of the wildings? Will they remain under the protection of the Watch after you’ve left?”

“I’m… not sure,” Jon answered uneasily.

The fire crackled in the resulting silence of the room. Stannis met Sansa’s eyes briefly, calculating the situation in his mind, before turning again to the younger man. “Do you share Melisandre’s opinion, then, that you have a role to play at Winterfell, Jon Snow?”

Jon Snow hesitated. “I’m… tired of fighting, Your Grace. It's all I've done since I left home. I've killed brothers of the Night's Watch. I've killed wildlings. I've killed men that I admire. I hanged a boy younger than my brother Bran just yesterday. I’ve fought, and I’ve lost.”

“It’s our home,” came Sansa’s voice, quiet but steely. “Winterfell is _our home_ , Jon. It's ours and Arya's and Bran's and Rickon's. Wherever they are, it belongs to our family. We have to fight for it.”  Jon looked at her, pained, as she continued. “And we’ll never be safe so long as the Boltons hold the north.”

“You know my offer, Jon Snow,” Stannis cut in. “Though circumstances have changed somewhat,” he added, glancing at Sansa, “Two Starks are a stronger rallying point than one. I must confer with my Hand now, but I ask that you and Lady Stark decide how you want to proceed. And I would also advise you think about the Wildlings, and what their options are. You disregarded my advice before; that was your choice to make as Lord Commander, but now you must deal with the fallout.” He gestured to the door. “Lady Stark, you and your brother are of course welcome to share the other rooms in this tower.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa rose, gifting Shireen a small smile before she headed for the door, where she waited for Jon to follow. “Jon?”

Jon studied Stannis a moment longer, before nodding. “Your Grace. We will talk again on the morrow. Come, Sansa,” he smiled at his sister. “Let’s get you something hot to eat.”


	10. Decisions

Sansa smiled a small smile. “This is good soup. Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?”

“With the peas and onions?” Jon smiled, wistfully. “We never should have left Winterfell.”

“Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left?” Sansa agreed, a disgusted note entering her voice. “I want to _scream_ at myself ‘Don't go, you _idiot_.’"

“How could we know?” Jon smiled sadly at her.  

“I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. I wish I could change everything,” Sansa admitted, quietly.

“We were children.”

Sansa sent him a glance mild rebuff. “I was _awful_ , just admit it.”

Jon’s face creased with his first genuine smile since her arrival. “Fine, you were _occasionally_ awful. But I'm sure I can't have been great fun, always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played.”

“Can you forgive me?”

 “There's nothing to forgive.”

They were quiet a moment, before Sansa quietly asked, “What offer did His Grace make you?”

Jon fidgeted awkwardly, avoiding her eyes. “Before he began his march south, the King offered to legitimize me, if I bent the knee, offered me Lord of Winterfell, to be Warden of the North.”

“Ah.” Sansa leaned back. ‘ _Though circumstances have changed somewhat.’_ She’d been dropped in Stannis’ lap, almost quite literally, and he’d offered her Wardenness of the North, thinking Jon had committed himself to the Wall. “I see.”

“I won’t accept it,” Jon rushed to assure her. “You’re a trueborn Stark and daughter of Winterfell. Until we find Bran and Rickon… if we find them… Winterfell is yours, Sansa, it’s not meant to be mine. But if I don’t watch over you, Father’s ghost will come back and murder me. I’ll come south, and fight with the Baratheon army to oust Winterfell.”

Sansa was quiet.   “How many wildlings did you save at Hardhome?”

“A few thousand.”

“Would they fight for you?”

“The Wildlings didn't come south to serve me. But the bigger problem is Stannis.”

“How so?

“He burned their king for treason when he refused to bend the knee. ”

Sansa blinked. “Pardon?”

“His Grace offered the Wildlings amnesty for their crimes, if they swore fealty, but it was not in Mance Rayder’s nature to kneel. But instead of a sword, Stannis used fire.”

Sansa thought of how the Red Woman wanted to burn the King’s own daughter, how his wife rushed into the flames. “I imagine that’s the preferred method of the followers of the Lord of Light?”

“Aye, it seems, but the sight did not endear the King to the Wildlings. They only trusted - or tolerated - me because I shot an arrow into Mance’s heart, ended his misery.”

Sansa thought back to her first meeting with Stannis, his care of her feet in their first encounter, the respect of his men, his deal with Brienne of Tarth, and their discussion on the road to Winterfell.  “The King is a hard man, but I don’t think him a cruel one. And I think he’s lost his taste for the flames.” She glanced at Jon, who nodded. She took that as a sign that Davos had briefed him on the threat to Shireen and the fate of Selyse Baratheon. “The Wildlings owe you their lives. But if you’re no longer Lord Commander here, they have no sworn protection from Northerners, or the men of the Watch. From what you say, heading back north of the wall isn’t an option for them, either.”

Jon frowned. “No, it isn’t.”

“I suppose the Wildlings wouldn’t be disposed to take up arms in _my_ name?” Sansa asked, but dryly. It was more statement than question.

Jon’s mouth twisted. “We can ask them, but no, I think not.”

Sansa looked into the fire, quiet. “I was never meant to have Winterfell, either, Jon. There were three Stark sons, and as soon as Bran was born, there was never any expectation that Winterfell would be anything except a place that I visited my family with my future children. I do not need to be Lady Stark, or Wardenness of the North. I only need my home to be freed from the monsters who now hold it. House Mormont has pledged their banners in support with our Baratheon alliance, but the King is right. You're the son of the last true Warden of the North. Our position will be stronger if you accept his offer. And you would be able to make an offer of protection to the Wildlings.”

“The Wildlings are not likely to kneel for Stannis, let alone fight for him.”

“Neither would Lady Brienne, and the King offered her amnesty if she knelt to me instead, and honoured my support of him. If the Wildlings pledge their support to you, and you to him, that might be… tolerable for him.”

Jon was quiet for a long time. “Are you sure about this, Sansa? This is your birthright.”

Sansa smiled. “I’m sure, Jon. It’s _our_ birthright. And it’s in good hands with you.”

“We’ll discuss terms with His Grace and with Tormund, then, in the morning.”


	11. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A raven arrives.

“Kneel? To _him?_ ” Tormund gestured, torn between being incredulous or furious. He sat across from Stannis in the King’s Tower office, snarling. Davos hovered behind the King, and Sansa was flanked by the ever-present Brienne of Tarth and Podrick to the side, surveying the proceedings as Jon made his case to the big redheaded man.

“To me, as Warden of the North,” Jon replied, “And I would acknowledge King Stannis’ rightful claim to the Iron Throne, as my father did before me.”

“He killed Mance Rayder!”

“I executed Mance Rayder,” Stannis broke in, firmly. “For treason. You are south of the wall, and must acknowledge our laws while you’re here. I gave Rayder the opportunity to kneel; he chose not to do so. I’m to understand that your people seek permanent refuge here now, to escape the walkers in the north, but you also know that you have committed crimes against the people here. I would be within my rights to execute the lot of you for those crimes against them, but here we are again: offering your people forgiveness and safety and our help in fighting the wights when they knock on our door. This is the last time this offer will be made, and I would think very carefully before rejecting it once again.” Tormund reddened, but Stannis gestured at Jon Snow. “This man has already fought and already _died_ for you and your people.  The men of the Wall will hardly grow more open to the Wildling presence once Jon Snow has left with me, nor will those people in the villages you’ve sacked forgive and forget. You have limited options right now, and I would consider them carefully.”

Edd broke in. “Tormund. Jon’s leaving me in command, and we executed the leaders of the plot against him. But the anti-Wildling sentiment behind that attack is not gone. Things here are too in flux to guarantee anything either way.”

Stannis glanced briefly towards Sansa. “I’m told the people of the north are not disposed to accepting outsiders, and that they value action more than words. Demonstrate your loyalty to Lord Stark and help reinstate the rightful heirs to Winterfell, and I imagine your people might find it easier to settle here.”  Giantsbane opened his mouth to reply hotly, but a knock sounded at the door, interrupting negotiations. “Enter.”

A bearded man entered and bowed his head to Jon, offering up a scroll. “A letter for you, Lord Commander.”

“I’m not Lord Commander anymore,” Jon grumbled, grumpy, but accepted the paper. He glanced at the seal, paused, then looked to Sansa. “It’s the Bolton seal – it’s from Winterfell.” She visibly froze, apprehensive, then nodded for him to read it. He cleared his throat.   

_"'To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow, Your false king is dead, bastard. He and all his host were smashed on the way to Winterfell and I took his head.'"_

Jon paused, confused, and looked to the King. Stannis’ eyes held an odd glint of triumph, and Davos’ a glint of amusement, but the King gestured for him to continue on.  

_“'I have his magic sword. Tell his red whore. Your false king lied, and so did you. You have allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon-'”_

Sansa started, and matched Jon’s look of horror when he paused to look at her, and swallowed as he pushed on. _“'His direwolf's skin is on my floor. Come and see. I want my bride back.'”_

Stannis’ eyes fixed on Sansa as she got more visibly unsettled than he had seen her since he first found her in the woods.

 _“'Send her to me, bastard,'"_ Jon spit out, _"'and I will not trouble you or your black crows or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride north and slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You--"_

Jon broke off a final time. Sansa looked him in the eye. “Go on.”

He demurred, slid his eyes away from her. “It's just more of the same.”

Without hesitating, Sansa marched forward, plucked the letter from his hand, and finished reading in a hard tone, though her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

 _"You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."_ Sansa raised her eyes to the silent gathering. Even Giantsbane seen taken aback, the blustery winds of his ire calmed.

“’ _Ramsey_ Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North’,” Jon repeated into the stunned silence.

“His father's dead,” Sansa replied, flatly. “Ramsay killed him. And now he has Rickon.”

“We don't know that.” Jon protested. “He also claimed to have routed the King’s army and taken his head, and His Grace is right here.”

“That I can explain,” Stannis interjected, his eyes still on Sansa and the softly quivering note in her hands. “Before we left to retreat to Bear’s Pass, I sent riders out to the villages closest to Winterfell, to spread the rumour that the bulk of the army had perished in the snowstorm after Ramsey’s sabotage, that the rest had abandoned the cause. I was hoping we’d get their guard down, give us some options if we needed to explore them.”

“You should be warned, Your Grace, that Ramsey isn’t to be underestimated. He’ll be hard to trap, as he’s the one who likes to set them. He could be boasting to scare Jon, or he saw through your men’s ruse and is trying to trick you. He likes to… play with people.” Jon seemed surprised at Sansa’s bluntness with the king, and equally surprised that Stannis appeared to accept her advice with nothing but a nod. Sansa re-examined the letter in her hands. “If Roose is dead, so are Walda and her baby. She must have given birth to a boy,” she muttered, almost to herself. Davos’ face, already increasingly horrified throughout the reading of the letter, paled a bit further. Stannis watched Sansa a moment longer, expression unreadable, as Jon gently removed the paper from her hands.

Stannis leaned forward and allowed himself one slow, deep breath. “This development likely works in our favour, nonetheless. Roose Bolton was a cold, calculating man, who would have been perfectly patient starving us out. The bastard is more hotheaded, easily goaded, I think. He won’t be able to resist meeting us on the battlefield.” He flicked his eyes to Sansa again, silently requesting her opinion on his assessment. She nodded. “Five thousand men, you said. I think we’ll have enough, but I’d feel better with more, especially if he’s prone to being wily. We’ll rally the north, approach the bannermen of the most loyal houses, see how many more we can get.” He absently ground his teeth. “It’s possible Ramsey is playing his little games with me, but we should to be careful with whom we share the truth of my army’s continued presence, just in case. Little birds fly quickly over the north, and we’ll need every advantage we can get.”

“I have two thousand at fighting strength,” Tormund interrupted, brusque. “The rest are children or old people.” At the raised brows around the room, he harrumphed. “That there is a mad dog, not a man. We’ll have some talking to do, with my folk - but he’s a threat to us. We’ll put the dog down,” he concluded, attempting a broad reassuring wink at the Tarth woman in a clear effort to lighten the mood in the room. The woman flushed and looked away, uncharacteristically unsure of herself, but her squire appeared to be fighting to tamp down a grin.  Sansa sent a tentative thankful smile of her own to Tormund, and he sent a second, gentler wink at her as well.

“Good. The way fights are lining themselves up for us, the more men in the ranks, the better.” Stannis ignored all the nonsense flitting around; he was in no mood to indulge it. His blood called to battle, his hands itched for a sword, and he tried to direct his fury productively. He stood up from the desk and paced to the window, the only evidence of the simmering anger burning under his skin. “We may have to split up to cover more ground. Lord Stark, you can ride to raise the banners, and talk to the free folk with Giantsbane. I want to get back to my men, ensure that Bolton hasn’t targeted them in my absence - and I doubt my presence would help with Wildling diplomacy.” He glanced at Davos. “I also have to decide what to do with Shireen. She can’t stay here, and I don’t want her anywhere near Ramsey Bolton.”  Davos frowned, obviously in agreement.

“I might suggest Bear Island, Your Grace,” Sansa offered. “The men will be joining us, but the women of the island will guard the princess ferociously, regardless of the battle outcome.”

He gazed upon her again, and nodded briskly. “So be it. Thank you, Lady Sansa.” His voice caught a bit on her name, having gotten used to calling her by her more formal title, now transferred to her brother. He cleared his throat. “May I ask you to please keep the Princess Shireen company, and help her with preparations to leave?” Sansa nodded and bowed, and Stannis gestured to Edd. “Can we have hot tea delivered to my daughter’s rooms, Lord Commander? I’d forgotten how drafty this place was.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Edd replied, perhaps a little more courteously than a man of the Watch might usually respond to such a request - he too had likely noticed the pallor of Sansa’s face and the tense set of her shoulders. “We’ll get more wood for the Princess’ fire as well. Follow me, milady.”

Sansa and her entourage bowed and left the room, and when Jon turned to confer worriedly with Tormund, Stannis took the opportunity to seethe quietly to his hand: “Davos, if it comes down to it, I may rip the rabid pup’s head from his body with my bare hands.”

“Aye, milord. You may have to race Lord Stark for the privilege, but may the gods carry you and light your path.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This version of Ramsey's letter is obviously a mixture of Book Letter and Show Letter.


	12. Therapeutic Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives a visitor.

Sansa sat by the fire in the Princess’ chambers, hardly feeling the warmth – but she couldn’t tell if it was the chill of Castle Black, or the cold block of ice that had lodged in her stomach since the arrival of the Winterfell raven. She had done a rather good job at distancing herself from the horrors at Ramsey’s hands in the adrenaline of escape and the subsequent distraction of joining and travelling with the Baratheon forces, focussing on orienting herself with the King and getting to Jon - but the dark, cold quiet of Castle Black now did nothing to drown out the flashes of memory. She set aside the cloak she was stitching for Jon, temporarily abandoning herself to her mood. Shireen looked up from her book, smiling curiously, and Sansa smiled back. “My fingers are a little sore,” she fibbed. “Just taking a little break.”

Shireen wrinkled her nose. “You lasted longer than I ever have. I have no real talent for it, to be honest.”

Sansa smiled again but offered nothing else, unsure she would be able to maintain a conversation. Luckily, Shireen was perfectly happy to slip back into the book she’d pilfered from the Castle Black library. The King had asked her to help the Princess pack up, but much like her father, Shireen was not the sort to have trunks of satins or frivolities to haul around wherever she went, and Sansa had found her single trunk neatly packed and ready to go at any moment. Clearly her father’s daughter, though more content to sit with a nose in a book than pace restlessly. Sansa suspected the King had made his request as a pretense to let her leave his offices more than anything else, and she might be inclined to take it as a slight if she were not aware that she had been shaken by Ramsey’s letter. His Grace was an observant man; she just hoped she hadn’t come off somehow as weak or overemotional. She liked that he listened to her counsel, and hoped her involuntary reaction hadn’t sabotaged that dynamic permanently – she had no wish to be permanently placed aside as they set out to rally the bannermen.

She felt a sudden phantom press of a blade down her arm and shuddered, closed her eyes, rubbed the area, tried to erase the sensation with the warmth of her own hand. No, she would be an active participant in taking back her home, no matter what. She wouldn’t allow otherwise.

A knock at the door brought her from her thoughts. “Yes?”

Brienne entered holding a scroll, a thundercloud upon her face. “For you, my lady.” Glancing down, Sansa looked down to see the seal of the mockingbird in the wax. Littlefinger. Well. She plucked the letter from Brienne and unwrapped it without ceremony. She scanned the words, cocked a brow. “How far is Mole’s Town?”

“Not far, milady, the first village south on the King’s Road. Half a league.”

Sansa deliberated over the note, engaging in a short and vicious debate with herself. She was not eager to leave the Castle on her own, not even with Brienne as a guard, and the hell she was going to come to heel when Littlefinger beckoned, sneaking around and engaging in his clever little machinations like nothing had happened. He could come to _her._

However, she was conscious of the King’s desire to keep his whereabouts as quiet as possible, and Littlefinger trafficked in exactly that kind of information. She didn’t necessarily consider Baelish an overt threat to the King, but she did not trust him, either. A few of the King’s men seen around the courtyard might not raise an eyebrow – a few deserters with no good prospects could have retreated to the Wall – but Baelish seeing the King himself posed a risk.

But the King had kept to his tower since his arrival, going over strategies with her brother and his Hand. She’d barely seen him and her rooms were only a couple floors away. She bit her lip.  

 She moved to the desk, scratched a quick reply, and handed it back to her knight. “Please send this back,” she requested, then paused.  “If he comes, we’ll meet him in the Shieldhall.” The likelihood he’d see Stannis in that more abandoned section of the castle was practically non-existent.

“Yes, milady,” Brienne nodded, ducking out the door.

Sansa met Shireen’s inquisitive look with a calm she didn’t necessarily feel. “I may receive a visitor, Your Grace. He requested I meet him in town, but I would prefer not leave the safety of Castle Black.”

How very unfortunate for Lord Baelish that he showed up just when she was feeling so very unsettled, she thought, grim, picking up Jon’s cloak again, and viciously stabbing her needle through the fur.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Stannis ducked back into the shadows of the upper walks. _What in the seven hells was Baelish doing here?_  He watched as the man made his way across the courtyard towards the buildings across from the King’s Tower, that housed more common rooms of the Watch. _Sansa. He’s here for Sansa._ The lady had mentioned the scheming flesh-peddler enough in her recounting of her tale, and mentioned him in their conversations as a source of her knowledge, that he knew the man had had an outsized interest in her - getting her out of King’s Landing, arranging her marriage to Ramsey, though he was unsure how much of the latter boiled down to a sale, and how much was the man’s penchant for puppeteering. Stannis began to follow the man’s movement across the grounds, sticking to the shadows - he instinctually felt like hiding his presence from the man was the smartest course of action, but also felt a driving need to investigate what he was up to. Was he here to try and return Lady Sansa to Winterfell? To check on her after her escape?

He felt a sharp stab at the possibility that Sansa had contacted Littlefinger herself, that she was somehow secretly in league with him, and his face settled into a grimace, picking up the pace.

He arrived to the main building to see Baelish be escorted into the Shieldhall, and lightly made his way to the door. He quietly dismissed the Watchman who had delivered the man inside, gesturing for him to remain quiet and not greet him as he approached.

Eavesdropping was not a particularly kingly pursuit, he would admit, and he felt a godsdamned fool - but Baelish was the kind of man for whom it would be most wise to take an opportunity to observe when he didn’t know you were listening. And considering his recent weakness with the Red Woman, it might be prudent to take the same measure of the Lady Sansa and her relationship to this man. He took a quick peer inside the room, catching sight of Lady Sansa’s bright hair against the dark stone as Baelish crossed the cavernous room, and he quickly positioned himself on the far side of the door, out of sight.

“Sansa. Lady Brienne,” Baelish greeted, his voice soothing, ingratiating. ”When I heard you had escaped Winterfell, I feared the worst. I can understand not wanting to come meet me, it was wise to stay here within the walls of the castle. You have no idea how happy I am to see you unharmed.”

Sansa’s voice, in response was as cold and hard as the wall of ice that rose up behind the castle. “’Unharmed?’ What are you _doing_ here?”

“I rode north with the Knights of the Vale to come to your aid. They're encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak.” Stannis’ eyebrow quirked, noting the resource.

Sansa was less impressed, a cold burst of laughter escaping from her. “To come to my _aid_? Did you _know_ about Ramsay? If you didn't know, you're an idiot. If you did know, you're my _enemy_. Would you like to hear about our wedding night, Lord Baelish?” Littlefinger seemed stunned and unsure, and Sansa continued with malice. “He never hurt my face. He _needed_ my face, the face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the _rest_ of me, oh - he did what he liked with the rest of me as long as I could still give him an heir. What do you think he did, Lord Baelish?”

“I can't begin to contemplate—"

“What do you think he _did_ to me?” She interrupted, stunning Baelish quiet.

“Lady Sansa asked you a question,” Brienne prompted into the tense silence, disdain dripped from every word.

Baelish sounded increasingly uncertain. “He… beat you.”

“Yes, he enjoyed that,” Sansa briskly responded. “What else do you think he did?”

“Sansa, I—"

“What _else_?”

“… Did he… cut… you?”

A cold satisfaction rang in her voice. “Maybe you _did_ know about Ramsay all along.”

“I didn't know.” Baelish’s tone began to sound horrified, and desperate.

“I thought you knew everyone's secrets.”

“I made a mistake, a _horrible_ mistake. I underestimated a stranger.”

“The other things he did, ladies aren't supposed to talk about those things, but I imagine brothel keepers talk about them all the time. I can still _feel_ it, you know. And I don't mean in that my tender heart it still pains me so,” she bit out, caustic. “I mean I can still feel what he did in my body standing here, _right now_.” Stannis briefly closed his eyes.

“I'm so sorry.” Baelish, to his credit, sounded as genuinely regretful as Stannis felt.

Sansa, however, was unmoved. “You said you would _protect_ me.”

“And I _will_. You must believe me when I tell you that I will.”

“I _don't_ believe you anymore. And I don't _need_ you anymore. You can't protect me. You wouldn’t even be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down. And why shouldn't I?” Stannis wondered briefly if that precise, chilly tone was something Northern women practiced, or if it came naturally.

“Do you want me to beg for my life? If that's what you want, I will. Whatever you ask that is in my power, I will do.”

“What if I want you to die here and now?”

“Then I will die.” Stannis considered this: whether it was honest or a gambit, it was interesting that Baelish was moved to the point of that offer.

“You freed me from the monsters who murdered my family and you gave me to other monsters who murdered my family." Sansa's voice echoed through the great hall with the confidence and authority of a queen passing sentence. "Go back to Moat Cailin. I never want to see you again. My brother and I will take back the North on our own.”

Baelish was quiet for a moment. “I would do anything to undo what's been done to you. I know that I can't. But will you allow me to say one more thing before I go? The Blackfish has gathered what remains of the Tully forces and retaken Riverrun. You might consider seeking him out. The time may come when you need an army loyal to you.”

“I _have_ an army.”

“Your _brother's_ army. _Half_ -brother.”

Sansa, to her credit, kept her cards to her chest. “You may keep your advice, Lord Baelish. Words are cheap, particularly yours; I find myself much more impressed by action these days. You say you’re sorry, that you’re my ally. I will believe it when its proven to me and not a moment before. Good day, Lord Baelish. Please see yourself out.”

Stannis ducked backwards and into a dark corner, as Baelish made his exit, his face seemingly reflecting both a true distress and also – per his default state – a scheme in its formation.

“How do you feel, my lady?” Stannis heard Brienne inquire a few minutes later, as the women made their own way to the door.

“Much better, actually, Lady Brienne,” was Sansa’s cool answer, as she marched through the entryway and back towards the King’s Tower. “We need to tell His Grace about the Blackfish,” she continued, her voice trailing off the farther she got. “The Knights of the Vale as well, I suppose, but I think we can both agree that Baelish’s promises are worth very little.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated a bit about Sansa going to meet Baelish outside the castle to protect Stannis' charade, but couldn't think of a good way to get him out of the castle to hear her dress Baelish down (which I really really wanted!), so I split the difference. 
> 
> I also liked the idea that she'd feel secure enough in her alliance at this point that she wouldn't feel afraid to make Baelish jump through hoops, nor would she feel the need to be sneaky with a king who had clearly demonstrated that he valued her input.


	13. Family, Duty, Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes her case.

The king had not been in his solar when she’d returned to the King’s Tower and Sansa forced herself to return to Shireen’s company and find a productive use for her nervous energy, working on finishing Jon’s cloak until His Grace returned. She felt much lighter and steadier than she had; the satisfaction of confronting Baelish like draining a festering infection from a wound. She still hurt, still had healing to do, but the poison of betrayal had been sucked out. And she was eager to move on to the next step – ejecting Ramsey from her home, and perhaps having Ghost go for his neck.

“Did you have a nice visit with your guest?” Shireen inquired innocently.

“Not really,” Sansa replied, wry, as she examined her needlework. “He was a friend of my mother’s, but ultimately he’s a very self-centered man.” She met Shireen’s eyes over the cloak. “But he may have had information that could help your father, so I think it was worth meeting with him.”

“Oh, that’s good then,” Shireen agreed. “I’m glad Father found you, you know. I think he was having trouble navigating the North – the snowstorm we were caught in was just awful, I don’t think he’d ever experienced anything quite like that. I think he enjoyed the wildfire fight at Blackwater more than that night.” Shireen made a face. “He always said he preferred the warm rains of Storm’s End to the cold of Dragonstone, but snow might be his least favourite of all, now.”

“The snow can be very unpleasant if you’re not used to it. Winterfell has a hot spring, though, and pipes that carry its warmth through the castle during the winter, so it’s not quite as cold and drafty as it is here and elsewhere. My mother was from the Riverlands, and said she was very grateful for it, during her first winter.”

Shireen perked up. “Oh, I do hope we take it quickly then,” and the two giggled a little. “My father likes you, you know.”

Sansa blinked. “He does?” To her, the King was polite, respectful, but also erred on the curt side, if not veering into outright grumpy.

“Oh, yes. You and your brother, I can tell.”

“How so?” Sansa asked, curious.  


Shireen’s smile took on a mischievous quirk. “Well, with Father, it’s far easier to tell who he _doesn’t_ like. He doesn’t hide _that_ well at all.”

Sansa giggled a little, and then looked up at the knock on the door. Davos smiled in at them. “Begging your pardon for my interruption, ladies. Lady Sansa, His Grace has returned, if you want to speak with him.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Davos.” She folded up Jon’s cloak, just finished. “Could you fetch Brienne and Jon from downstairs as well?”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Enter,” came the brisk response to her knock, and Sansa entered the room to see Stannis pouring over maps, as he was wont to do.

“Excuse me, your Grace, I have some news,” she curtsied, as Davos circled around her to stand with the king.

“News?” he asked, as curt as usual, but he quickly glanced at her face and then away again, though, flushing a little and looking uncomfortable, almost … embarrassed?  It was a little strange, and it made her pause a moment. But when Jon and Brienne entered behind her, she felt the need to continue.

“Yes, I’ve had a visitor this afternoon, Lord Baelish contacted me and I received him in the Sheildhall.”

“Baelish?” Jon scowled. “What did _he_ want?”

“To offer me an army,” she responded, voice as dry as a Dornish day. “He says he’s brought the Knights of the Vale to aid my cause, that they are garrisoned at Moat Cailin awaiting my beck and call.”

Jon looked impressed, and Davos pleased, but Sansa focused on Stannis, who regarded her cryptically. “And you think not much of this offer, Lady Sansa.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I don’t think Lord Baelish is your enemy, Your Grace, but he’s a man you can trust only when you are absolutely sure his own interests align with yours, and that is very difficult to know. He is someone who likes to back a winning side, but that loyalty lasts only as long as the next move. He may be earnest in his desire to support me for now, or he may only want me to _think_ he supports me. The Arryns _are_ cousins by marriage and longtime friends of House Stark, but the new Lord Arryn is very young and … erratic. As guardian of Lord Arryn, Baelish does lead the forces of the Vale, but whether they’ll actually come to our aid… we’ll only know when they get here and don’t ride for Ramsey.”

Stannis nodded slowly. “I see.”

“More importantly,” Sansa continued. “He brought us news of my uncle, Brynden Tully.”

“The Blackfish?” Davos inquired, delighted.

“You’ve heard of him?” Jon asked, smiling.

“Oh, aye,” Davos chuckled. “Men with reputations like the Blackfish get their tales told far and wide, even in Flea Bottom.”

“According to Baelish, the Blackfish has re-taken Riverrun from the Freys with what remains of the Tully forces.”  

Stannis’ mouth pulled to the side in a ghost of half-smile.  “I admire the man’s nerve, but I don’t think the Lannisters are likely to allow that to go on for long.”

“Your Grace, I don’t wish you to expend your resources verifying Lord Baelish’s information. It’s obviously more important to focus on preparing your troops and rallying support from the Northmen, but I’d like to send Brienne and Podrick to Riverrun to try to recruit my uncle to our cause.”

“Lady Sansa! I cannot leave you here unprotected!” Brienne protested.

“I am not unprotected, Lady Brienne. I will have Jon with me as we tour the north, and that large Wildling man.”

Jon frowned. “To be honest, Sansa, I thought you’d be going with the Princess Shireen to Bear Island.”

“Nonsense,” Sansa dismissed the idea out of hand. “If the plan is to keep the King’s presence as quiet as possible, we can’t recruit the houses of the North with his name – word will get back to Ramsey. The houses won’t know you’re a legitimized bastard, so you’ll have more success with me at your side, a trueborn daughter supporting your claim. We’ll only tell the lords about His Grace once they’ve committed their aid, when we know who is true and loyal.” She turned back to Stannis. “And I will write a note for Brienne to carry to Uncle Brynden, but will not mention you in it in case it’s intercepted. She and Podrick will give him that information him directly, when they deem it safe to do so.”

He glanced down at the map. “The Riverlands are a ways away, Lady Sansa. Even if Lady Brienne is successful, they might not make it back in time to join us at Winterfell.”

“I know, but the Blackfish is too important a strategist in both this battle and the wars to come to not try, and the more men we have against wights and Lannisters, the better. And I think he may come; he's a Tully, and there's not much family left for him to defend.”

“You’re not wrong, there.” Stannis looked from her to Brienne. “You swear on your honour, and on the Lady Sansa’s life, that you’ll tell no one but the Blackfish of my forces in Bear Pass?”

Brienne scowled, the very question an insult. “Of course, my lord. I swear it.”

“Alright then, I’ll allow it.” Stannis straightened, flicking his eyes over Sansa again with an inscrutable expression. “Everyone rest tonight. We’ve dallied here long enough. We head out on the morrow.”  

 


	14. Divide and Conquer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Take-Back-Winterfell sets out down the road.

“You’ve changed so much, you know,” Jon mused to Sansa.

They’d parted ways with Stannis, Davos and their men at the road to Queenscrown, the other party opting to backtrack down the lesser-travelled trail back to Bear Pass instead of travelling along the King’s Road. Sansa rode between Jon and Tormund, making good time before their first stop, the Wildling encampment. Brienne and Podrick had left earlier than all of them, still in the cover of dark, hoping to get down to Riverrun as soon as possible. Tormund had grumbled a little about a lost opportunity to flirt, but had recovered his usual charm, whistling under his breath as they made their way. Ghost, meanwhile, trotted along happily beside them, snapping at the snow and bounding about like a very large puppy.

“I suppose I have,” Sansa agreed. “But I’m still me. Look at that stunning new cloak I’ve made you,” she teased. “A perfect vision of the Lord of Winterfell.”

Jon blushed, running a hand over the soft fur and Stark sigil marked in the leather. “Still feels a bit strange, to be honest.”  She pretended mock outrage, and he laughed. “Not the cloak, Sansa, it’s made beautifully,  it’s just… bein’ a Stark, now, and not a Snow.”

“I know,” she said, softly. “But really, you’ve always been a Stark, Jon. It’s everyone else that needs to adjust.”

He smiled at her. “That’s kind of you to say. But I need to adjust, too - to you! Lady Sansa Stark, trusted advisor to King Stannis Baratheon himself,” he teased.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Sansa rolled her eyes.

“I’m serious!” Jon protested.

She waved a hand at him. “You exaggerate. Stannis is just a man who doesn’t waste resources, and needs help dealing with the North. He's hardly going to install me on his small council in King’s Landing.” She smiled. “I’ll admit I do like that he listens when I speak, though. In all my childhood dreams I imagined myself spending my time dancing with lords at the ball, but never talking with them at the high table, that any of them would want to listen to my opinions.” She frowned. “It’s rather sad, in retrospect. I loved Mother dearly, but sewing, singing, dancing, poetry… perhaps I should have been encouraged to do a bit more. Actually, maybe that’s not fair,” she amended herself, “perhaps I was just hitting an age where Mother would have started tutoring me in such things when I left Winterfell, or perhaps that was a reason she allowed me to go south in the first place, to learn more.” Sansa sent a rueful smile to Jon. “In any case, Princess Shireen is more serious and broadly-read than I was at her age, that’s for certain. She spent most of her time poring over the military histories of the Watch the whole time I was with her.”

Jon laughed. “Ah, well, maybe that the key to what helped you gain the King’s ear so quickly – he raised a serious, smart daughter of his own, he’s used to -” Tormund snorted derisively from the left, catching their attention. “What?” Jon asked.

“I’d say it’s not the king’s _ear_ that she’s got, so much as his _eye_.” Tormund wiggled his eyebrows with such gleeful and suggestive innuendo that Sansa couldn’t help a bark of laughter alongside Jon’s hoot.

“Funny, Tormund,” Jon chuckled.

“What? I only speak truth!” Tormund dropped his voice conspiratorially, winking at her. “People as beautiful as us, Sansa, kissed by fire – we outshine all others. They are faded and common next to our burning light. It is impossible to resist us.”  Tormund leaned forward to address Jon. “Don’t you recall that man’s miserable, dour wife? A man who lived with that kind of woman for so long could not help but notice a girl such as your sister. For such a man to resist you, he would be _dead_ inside,” he informed Sansa, nodding firmly.  

Sansa was not a stranger to male attention, positive and negative – but considering Stannis’ treatment of her could not be farther than Littlefinger’s, or even Sandor’s, she found herself wholly amused by Tormund’s proclamation. “The King perhaps likes me as much as he likes anyone,” she allowed, thinking of her conversation with Shireen. “But he’s very recently widowed, and he’s never… flirted. I’ve had men express interest in me before, Tormund. It doesn’t feel like that.”

“Fine, don’t listen to me. We’ll see who is right in the end, and who has the last laugh.” Tormund nodded, very sure of himself.

Sansa was too busy laughing at his dramatics and shaking her head to notice the slow, dawning awareness blooming across Jon’s face. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“A pity that the Lady Sansa can’t keep Shireen company on Bear Island,” Davos remarked, tone carefully neutral, keeping his eyes on the treeline. “They seemed to be getting along very well these past couple of days.”

“Yes, well, Lady Sansa’s logic was unimpeachable,” Stannis grumbled.  “These Northerners are an obstinate lot, and convincing them to fall in line will take all the Starks we have. She has every right to participate in liberating her home. She feels it’s her duty; I must respect that.” He’d also felt overwhelmingly guilty about eavesdropping on her when she’d proved so honest and aboveboard, but he wasn’t quite ready to confess to his Hand that he’d acted so dishonourably, not just yet. “And she’s in her brother’s care now, so it was ultimately out of my hands anyhow.”

“Mmm, I suppose,” Davos nodded. They travelled along the path in silence for a while before he spoke again, aggressively mild.  “A fortunate turn of events, wasn’t it, finding her?”

“It’s very fortunate the last remaining Stark is not an abject fool, yes.”   

“Aye, rather canny she is, that girl.” Davos waited a few more beats, darting his eyes to the side, before continuing conversationally, “I don’t think realized the extent of connections the Starks had through their mother. Catelyn Stark was from the Riverlands, wasn’t she? But Lady Sansa also mentioned relations to the Vale.”

Stannis cast a sidelong glance back at him. “Catelyn’s sister married John Arryn of the Vale, and produced the current Lord Arryn, the boy.”

“A Stark who’s both niece to Lord Tully and cousin to Lord Arryn, then? Hoster Tully arranged his daughters’ marriages well, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Stannis responded, shortly. “Quite.”

Davos raised his eyebrows and, knowing he was pressing his luck, fell silent for some time before delicately testing the waters again. “Lord Stark and his sister don’t favour each other much, do they?”

“Lord Stark favours the family they share. Lady Sansa favours her mother’s people.”

“That red hair, I imagine.” Davos waited a beat. “An altogether lovely girl, isn’t she?”

 “Yes, it’s somewhat a miracle that Ned Stark fathered her.” Stannis gave in and sent an irritated look at his Hand. “For a happily married man, you’re talking an awful lot about a girl young enough to be your daughter, Davos.”

Davos raised his shortened hand in protest. “I’m just making conversation on these long and winding roads, Your Grace. And married men don’t just go _blind_ and lose the ability to appreciate a face as fair as that one, you know that.”

“She’s practically Shireen’s age,” Stannis spit.

“Ach, now, I wouldn’t go so far to say that,” Davos replied, mild again. “Lady Sansa’s already been married twice, and Shireen’s years from that.”

“I hardly think Lady Sansa’s marriages can be considered typical in any way.”

“Well, no, you’re right there,” Davos frowned. “A tragic case, a young girl like her, falling into the hands of the likes of the Lannisters and Boltons like that. A right shame all around.”

“That’s what happens when fathers manage to lose their heads before they can make good marriages for their daughters,” Stannis replied, impatient. “I must endeavour to keep my own and save Shireen from such a fate. Are we done gossiping like biddies, Davos?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Davos replied, the picture of innocence  - save a knowing twinkle in his eye. “Of course.”

Stannis was very glad that he’d never mentioned the business of riding back to camp with the girl to Davos, nor carrying Lady Sansa to her tent. The man would be absolutely insufferable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tormund and Davos know what's up. (You still know nothing, Jon Snow.)


	15. Stubborn Mules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne butts head with the Blackfish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long/is so short, it was less fun writing Brienne then Stannis and Sansa. 
> 
> (And the absolute disaster of 805 put me off my game. WAT U DOIN D&D? I literally have to fix *everything*, ugh. So just FYI, once we hit Season 7 and I have to tear the plot completely apart, there'll be less canon scripts to use as a framework, and updates will probably be posted less frequently then they have in the past.)

Brienne chased after the Blackfish, urgency propelling her every step. She didn’t want to fail the Starks, again, and she did not want it to come down to fighting Jaime, if she could help it.

“I've said no three times already.” The Blackfish stormed down the hallway, waving a hand dismissively.

Brienne repeated, firmly,  “I have a signed letter from your niece Sansa Stark.”

“I haven't seen Sansa since she was a child. I don't know her signature. I don't know _you_. And I will _not_ surrender.” He paused to glance over the wall, barked at the men along it. “Double the guards tonight! The Kingslayer wants to try us. I can _feel_ it.”

Brienne and Podrick hustled to keep up as the Blackfish took giant strides down a staircase to the main level. “As I have said, my name is—"

“Yes, Brienne of Tarth. I know your father. Good man.”

“He always spoke highly of you.”

“And if he were here now, I'd tell him the same I'm telling you. If you think I'm abandoning my family's seat on the Kingslayer's word of honor, you're a bloody fool.”

“Riverrun cannot stand against the Lannisters and the Freys.”

“We can stand longer than your one-handed friend _thinks_ we can.”

“He's not my friend.”

Brynden stopped suddenly, wheeled to face her, squinting sarcastically. “No? Who gave you permission to cross the siege line and enter the castle? Who gave you that sword with the gold lion on the pommel?”

At the end of her rope, Brienne grit her teeth and enunciated very clearly. “Ser Jaime kept his word to your niece Catelyn Stark. He sent me to find Sansa, to help her as Catelyn wished. He gave me this sword to protect her. _That is what I have done_ and what _I will continue to do_ until _the day. I. die.”_ She shoved the letter at him, one last insistent attempt.

Surprised, Tully took the time to size her up, to size Podrick up, finally relented and took the letter. A small smile ghosted at his lips as he read through, and he let out a quiet, affectionate chuckle. “She's _exactly_ like her mother.” He looked up, quirked a thoughtful eyebrow at her. “I don't have enough men to help her take Winterfell.”

Brienne and Podrick smiled in relieved unison. Taking a quick glance around to make sure none of surrounding men were within earshot, Brienne lowered her voice. “Your men will not be alone. She did not want to commit it to scroll, should it be intercepted, but Lady Sansa has allied with Stannis Baratheon. His forces are garrisoned in secret in Bear’s Pass, protected by House Mormont. As I left, Lady Sansa and her brother – who Stannis has promised to legitimize to secure Winterfell for House Stark - were heading out to raise the banners of other loyal Northmen, and the leader of the Wilding believes he can get two thousand of his people as well.”

Brynden blinked, taking the information in. “Wildlings? _Wildlings_ fighting for Winterfell?”

“It’s a rather long story, Ser Brynden, but the Bolton bastard who holds Winterfell – the one Lady Sansa was forced to marry – is a vicious man. He poses a threat to the Wildlings who have taken refuge south of the Wall, as well as Lady Sansa and the North at large.”

The Blackfish frowned. “How vicious?”

Brienne stared directly in the eye.  “Very. But beyond him, there is further trouble north of the wall, trouble worse than any Lannister or Bolton threat. Lady Sansa convinced Stannis to send me here for you not just because you are her family, but because you will be _sorely_ needed, now and in future.”

The Blackfish was quiet, reread the letter in his hands, and appeared to waver, shaking his head. “I’m sorry Lady Brienne. I wish that I could trust that Jaime Lannister would let the Tully forces leave. But I don’t trust him, and as much as Winterfell is Sansa’s home, Riverrun is _mine_. And if Jaime Lannister wants it, he can bloody well take it the way everyone else does.” He nodded at her, almost apologetically, before marching off to yell at more of his men.

~*~*~~

In a perfect mirror only hours later, The Blackfish hustled behind Brienne and Podrick as they bolted down the stairwell to a riverboat escape.

“Come with us.” The Blackfish shook his head. “Your family is in the North. They need. Don't die for pride when you can fight for your blood.”

“You'll serve Sansa far better than I ever could.” The Blackfish grumped, shooing them into the boat as they heard guards clanking behind them, obeying the orders of Lord Tully to find his uncle. _“All the way down! Check that out!”_

“Go on, now. I haven't had a proper sword fight in years. I expect I'll make a damn fool of myself,” he muttered, to himself.

Brienne, desperate, grabbed his arm one final time, made direct eye contact. “ _Ser Brynden_. This fight is lost, for now, but you can come with us. Winterfell is held by a madman, and the army of the dead marches on the realm from above the wall.” She gritted her teeth and enunciated. “ _You are_ _still needed_.”

The Blackfish stared back at her, then back at the commotion up the stairs, then nodded his head, joining them in the boat. “Fine. Robert’s Rebellion was a damned good fight. Might as well join Stannis’ Siege, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S RIGHT MOTHERF*CKERS 
> 
> I'M SAVING THE BLACKFISH
> 
> *does a victory lap*


	16. Gauntlets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis gets his first glimpse of Ramsey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how do we feel about that ending? I'm sifting through what I want to keep of the last two seasons, and what I'm throwing away like yesterday's trash.

“According to Davos’ raven, this should be the place.” Jon surveyed the area. “Good place for our people to set camp. Those mountains are a natural fortification. There’s a stream down there for the horses. Good eye, the King has. The snowstorm and Ramsey’s tricks set him back, but this wasn’t a bad place to settle. Our people will likely fare just fine here, knowing to keep an eye out for his tricks.”

“Our people. Two thousand wildlings, two hundred Cerwyns, two hundred Hornwoods, one-hundred-forty-three Mazins, and sixty-two Mormonts,” Sansa mused, taking a look around.

“ _Six hundred and twenty_ Mormonts, Sansa.” Jon smiled. “Each of them worth _ten_.”   

Sansa returned his humour with her eyes, but returned to her thoughts. “It’s not as many as I would have liked, or expected. Who would have thought it easier to convince two thousand wildlings to fight for Winterfell, then House Glover? Imagine what Father would think of this.”

“If he knew Stannis was with us, Glover might have supported our efforts. He did have heavy losses under Robb’s campaigns,” Jon allowed, but Sansa shook her head.

“I’m glad we didn’t tell anyone about the King until they first swore their oaths to House Stark. Now we know who is truly loyal, who can be counted on when we have nothing.” Sansa firmed her mouth. “And we will remember.”

Jon nodded, looking around, surveying the crowd himself. “I think we have decent numbers here, with what we’ve gathered. We might be able to take House Bolton on our own, if some great misfortune happened to befall the King’s men. But I like our chances more with them. ” He dismounted. “We get set up here and break to meet Stannis and Lady Mormont at dawn.”

“Yes,” Tormund drawled airily, trotting past. “Sansa mustn’t keep the King _waiting._ ” Jon sent him an exasperated look.

~ * ~ * ~

Stannis shifted in his seat. He thought he heard a crack down the path, but no one emerged.

Davos eyed him, incongruously merry. “Impatient, Your Grace?”

Stannis scowled. “I feel like I’ve been marching on Winterfell for months. I want to get on with it.”

“Naturally, milord, “ Davos agreed, pleasantly congenial.

“And this garb is uncomfortable,” Stannis grumped, pulling a bit at his neck. Lady Mormont slid her gaze to him, silent, but a little annoyed. He’d been gratified to find his men secure under the support of their Northern hosts, and the Mormonts had been amenable to escort his daughter safely to Bear Island. All scouts had reported back that the North appeared under the impression his army had disbanded. He didn’t trust it completely, and wanted to march on Winterfell before that luck ran out. If only the Starks would get here, they could get to the parlay with Bolton, and get on with it.  

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Stannis scowled at his Hand, but knew it was illogical to snap at him for being… agreeable. Before he could think of an appropriate reply, a commotion down the road drew his attention. Lord Stark, Lady Sansa, Giantsbane and a small cadre of men broke from the trees via a path in the distance and briskly kicked into a faster pace to meet them.

“Your Grace,” Jon bowed his head, and Sansa followed suit, her bright hair and fair skin glowing in the sun. Stannis quickly looked away to the other side of Jon, where Giantsbane merely eyed him and bounced his eyebrows. It wasn’t fealty by any stretch, but Stannis was prepared to accept it as the closest thing to a concession he was likely to get from the Wildling contingent, for now. “I didn’t recognize you from a distance, milord.”

“Yes, well, I want to join to you when you go to parlay with Bolton” Stannis explained, looking down at the House Mormont garb he wore. “You will speak with him, Lord Stark, but I want to take measure of the whelp with my own eyes.” He gestured to the helmet in his hand. “I should be able to go unnoticed. I’ve never met Bolton or his men, and reports confirm the ruse appears successful, for now. You were successful in raising the banners?”

“Houses Cerwyn, Mazin, and Hornwood answered the call, Your Grace,” Sansa answered. “Along with the Wildlings and the Mormonts, our numbers are at around twenty-six hundred.”

Stannis smiled in dark satisfaction, beginning to feel the thrum of anticipation begin to race under his skin, the call to battle beginning to build in his blood. “Excellent.”  The numbers were good, and after the failed attack at Blackwater, and the subsequent delays in his northern campaign, he was _ready_ for this fight.  With a smooth switch of grip, he placed the helmet on his head. “Then let’s not keep Lord Bolton waiting, House Stark.”

~ * ~ * ~

The leadership party reached the outskirts of Winterfell, and awaited the Bolton delegation, bearing down on them from the castle.

From his position by Lady Mormont, Stannis overheard Jon murmur to his sister. “You don’t have to be here.”

“Yes, I do,” came the cold, firm response. Sansa sat ramrod straight, tension clear in her shoulders, staring at the oncoming horsemen as they slowed and stopped.  

Ramsey’s eyes raked over Sansa’s form. “My _beloved_ wife. I’ve missed you _terribly_.” The smug Bolton bastard made Stannis’ blood heat from simmer to boil with one sentence. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely, Snow. Now, dismount and kneel before me, surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house.” Bolton smirked. “Come, bastard, you don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses, and you don’t have Winterfell. Why lead those pour souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your hose and _kneel_. I’m a man of _mercy_.”

Jon, to his credit, managed to keep his tone mild in the face of Bolton’s provocation. “You’re right. There’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s end this the old way. You against me.”

Chuckling, Bolton shook his head. “I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you. But I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have, what, half that? Not even?

Jon nodded, considering. “Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn’t fight for them?”

Ramsey paused, a little taken aback, then pointed gleefully, madness alighting his eye as he spoke to Sansa. “He’s good. Very good.” His smile melted into a sinister grimace. “Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?”

“And how do we know you have him?” Sansa responded, voice sheeted in ice.

Ramsay’s mouth twisted unpleasantly, and at his signal, his man carelessly tossed the head of a black direwolf between them. Jon and Sansa both froze, staring at it, and from beside Lady Mormont, Ghost let out a deep and ominous growl. Undeterred, Ramsey let loose with a gleeful smile. “Now, if you want to save —”

“You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton.” Sansa cut him off, pulling her eyes from Shaggydog’s head, and looking him directly in the eye. “Sleep well.”  Sansa turned her horse and rode away.

Stannis watched her depart briefly, before turning his attention to the smirking face of the Bolton, who watched her with a possessive fire that had Stannis’ hand twitching for his sword before he could control it. “She’s a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed.”  A mad smile stretched across his face. “And you’re all fine-looking men. My dogs are desperate to meet you. I haven’t fed them for seven days. They’re _ravenous_. I wonder which parts they’ll try first. Your eyes? Your balls? We’ll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard.” With a cheery salute, Bolton turned his mount and rode back to Winterfell, men in tow.

Davos finally risked a glace over his shoulder towards the King, and quirked a brow, as if sensing that Stannis’ Baratheon blood had settled into a hot flow of molten steel. Stannis nodded, curt. He’d seen all he needed to, and on the morrow, Bolton would lose his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some shots of the parlay. Look, he was there the whole time! 
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/mzTbpgZ)  
> [](https://ibb.co/TwDjMYW)


	17. Battle Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow knows nothing, but luckily, other people are around.

The sun was beginning to set as Stannis led the leadership party into his tent to confer around his planning table. He and Davos busily began moving figures around the map, while Sansa placed a settling hand on her stomach, trying to ease the queasy, fluttering sickness that had settled there since watching Shaggydog’s head being tossed to the ground. She knew what that meant, deep in her bones. 

“Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man, Snow?” Tormund muttered at Jon, who shook his head.

“No. But I wanted to make him angry. I want him coming at us full tilt,” Jon replied. Sansa frowned at him. Perhaps publicly embarrassing or making your enemy angry worked in most cases; she was not an expert in battle strategy. But she wasn’t sure it was the wisest course of action with a sadistic monster like Ramsay.

The commotion sounded outside the tent. _“Don’t mind that, you ninny, where’s my niece?”_ they all heard a gravelly voice boom, moments before a tall, strapping man pushed through the flaps to the King’s tent unannounced, wet and splattered with mud. The Blackfish paused and took them in, surrounding the planning table, as Brienne and Podrick followed him through the door. “Ah, it seems I’m just in time.”

“Uncle Brynden?” Sansa asked, peering around Tormund, and his searching eyes settled on her and crinkled.

“Ach, there she is.” He opened his arms and Sansa made her way around to him, quickly finding herself gathered up in a quick bear hug, then pushed back for close inspection. “Look at you, Sansa. The very image of your mother. She was my favourite you know, the only one of my brother’s brood who had a single lick of good character or sense, if I’m to be honest.” His expression clouded over, and he cupped her chin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her, or your brother, at the Twins, my dear. It was a cursed night that’s followed me every day since.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sansa replied. “The Boltons, Lannisters and Freys will pay for their treachery; they alone bear responsibility.” She swallowed and furiously blinked back the tears that threatened; she suddenly felt overwhelmed by emotion, having a member of her family suddenly restored to her on the heels of near certainty that she would lose yet another. “I’m so glad you’re here, Uncle Brynden.” She sent a grateful look at Brienne and Podrick, who swelled with pride. Sansa suddenly recalled herself to her surroundings. “Oh, excuse me, I forget myself. Ser Brynden, may I present –“

“Stannis of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and the one True King of Westeros,” Davos dutifully recited on cue.

Stannis glanced at his hand briefly, amused, before nodding briefly at the Blackfish, one seasoned veteran to another. “Tully.”

“Baratheon,” Ser Brynden returned the nod. “Been some time.”

“Indeed. This is Ser Davos, my hand, and Tormund Giantsbane of the Wildlings.” Brynden nodded to each, respectively. “You know Lord Stark, I presume.”

Ser Brynden stiffened, eyeing Jon, and Sansa recalled that – like her mother – Brynden had always been cool towards her half-brother, whose existence the Tullys viewed as an insult and stain on Catelyn’s honour. “ _Lord Stark_ , eh?”

Jon flushed uncomfortably, but Stannis cut through the tension, matter-of-fact. “I legitimized him. It was the most prudent course of action and warranted under the circumstances. Now, Tully, if you’ll allow us to get back to the matter at hand, your perspective might be helpful.” He gestured to the table.

Brynden sized up Jon for another second, then Stannis, before nodding. “Yes, of course.” He placed an arm around Sansa’s shoulders and stepped forward. “I understand we’re to relieve you of an unacceptable husband, Sansa.” She nodded, at a momentary loss for words – _how could she possibly explain?_ \- but he seemed to understand nonetheless, squeezing her shoulder before leaning forward to examine the map. “What’s your plan so far, Baratheon?”

Stannis smiled in grim satisfaction and mirrored his pose. “We lucked out that Ramsay killed his father. Roose would’ve stayed inside the walls of Winterfell and waited us out.” Stannis observed, surveying the table. “The whelp is too mad, feels he has too much to prove.”

Davos scratched his beard. “He knows the North is watching. If the other houses sense weakness on his part, they’ll stop fearing him. He can’t have that. Fear is his power.”

“Fear, and cunning. ” Sansa added darkly, finding her voice, and frowning at the table. “He’s overconfident, and feels vulnerable, but he plays games, lays traps. He enjoys being cruel, enjoys hurting people. It’s unwise to underestimate him.” Her uncle glanced over at her, a deep frown on his face.

“And his men don’t want to fight for him. If they feel the tide turning...” Jon trailed off. Sansa spared him a dubious look. Counting on Ramsay’s men to abandon him seemed like weak strategy to her – they’d risk being flayed, at the very least.

Her uncle seemed to agree. “It’s poor strategy to depend on your enemy turning on itself, especially when the numbers are evenly matched,” he declared, dismissing the idea out of hand.  “And to my understanding, that’s where we’re at.”

“At least we both have horses.“ Tormund noted, in what seemed a reluctant concession as he glanced at Stannis and Davos. “You cut through us like piss through snow, and the amount of horses he has, Bolton would do the same.”

Stannis acknowledged this with a nod. “You’re right, but so is Lady Sansa – we can’t underestimate him. We have to count on him pulling tricks.” He frowned at the map, gauging terrain, calculating.

“We also need a way to ensure we save Rickon,” Jon muttered.

“Jon.” Unable to remain quiet any longer, Sansa waited until he met her gaze. “We’re not getting Rickon back.”

The room fell quiet, but Jon got heated, sputtering. “Sansa! You can’t give up on our brother!”

Sansa refused to flinch, holding his anguished gaze. “Rickon is Ned Stark’s true-born son, Jon. He’s a greater threat to Ramsay than you, a bastard, or me, a girl. As long as he lives, Ramsay’s claim to Winterfell will be contested, so he was doomed the moment Ramsay got a hold of him. There is no way Rickon gets out of this alive. You need to prepare yourself.”

“I fought beyond the Wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton! I’ve defended the Wall from worse than Ramsay Bolton! We’ll get Rickon back, Sansa, I _swear_ it.”

Sansa’s own voice began to get heated. “Ramsay’s planning on you falling for one of his tricks, Jon. He’s going to use your hope against you. You need to know this, you need to know to _not_ do whatever it is he _wants_ you to do.”

“That’s enough,” Stannis interjected, before Jon could begin to shout. “We’ll obviously try to save the boy if we can, Lord Stark, but I think your sister is seeing the situation clearly. It will be very difficult to extract your brother before Ramsay chooses to kill him.” Jon subsided, but his face settled into stubborn, silent protest. Her uncle, however, met her gaze and gave her a nod.

Stannis resumed his study of the map, the hills and valleys surrounding the battlefield. “As Lady Sansa points out, the only thing we know is that we can count on Ramsay doing _something_. Since it seems to me our greatest asset is an army he doesn’t know about, and isn’t prepared for, I feel like we should keep it in reserve until he reveals his plan. That gives us the flexibility to combat whatever trap he means to lay.”

“’Reserve?’ You mean to send in my people, _our_ people to be run down?” Tormund looked outraged.

Stannis made a dismissive gesture. “No, no, of course not. We set up our defenses as we would as if the Northerners were fighting alone. That kind of fight wouldn’t be an impossible scenario, but it would be a difficult one, one that would have to be played very carefully. We’ll dig trench along our flanks, so that the Boltons won’t be able to hit us in the manner my men hit you, in a double envelopment.” He paused, noticing Tormund’s confusion. “A pincer move,” he explained, though the big man continued to stare blankly. He sighed. “They won’t be able to hit you from both sides.”

Tormund appeared mollified. “Good.”

The Blackfish sized up the field. “For that strategy to work, it’d be crucial to let them charge first. They’ve got the numbers, you’ll need the patience. If you let him buckle the center, he’ll pursue. Then we’ll have him surrounded on three sides.” He pointed to an area west of Winterfell. “Baratheon, your cavalry and men should wait there until we signal."

Stannis glanced over the map. “Agreed.” He was silent a moment. “I admit, knowing how unpredictable this boy is, I find myself wanting a bit of insurance.”  

“Insurance?” Davos asked.

“Yes. The bastard likes to play with people, manipulate them.” He glanced up at Sansa.  “It’s not my usual course of action, but maybe it would be prudent to do so here. We can't allow failure.” He frowned, thinking, then his eyes flew to Jon, inspiration striking. “His men abandoning him. We can’t count on it - but maybe we can arrange it nonetheless. Podrick?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Fetch Errol, will you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had Sansa and Jon hit up House Cerwyn in the last chapter to give the Riverrun crew a little more time to get back North in time for the fight.


	18. Battle of the Bastards (Redux)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon ignores all warnings, as he is wont to do.

Sansa sat atop her mount at the top of the hill, Podrick and Brienne flanked on either side, Ghost acting as sentry before her. Before her spread out the wide view of the battlefield, the turrets of Winterfell gracing the backdrop, ancient, timeless. By the end of the day she would either have her home, or she would be dead. A small dagger was strapped at her waist, as insurance. She would never be subject to Ramsay again. 

The king had noted the dagger as she’d passed him when he dropped back to station his troops just out of sight of the battlefield. He’d levelled his intense gaze from her hip to her face, firming his mouth into a resolute line. “Stay safe, Lady Sansa. Keep that wolf by you at all times. This will be over quickly enough.” 

She held that thought, that promise, to her while Jon, Davos, Tormund and the rest of the Northern army faced Bolton’s, Wun Wun towering over them all. Ramsay, for his part, had not hesitated to play his sadistic little mind games, burning pyres in the shape of an x , each presenting the burning flesh of an upside-down flayed man, a living representation of the Boltons’ stomach-turning sigil.

Her stomach dropped as Ramsay appeared through the ranks of his cavalry, towing something – someone – behind him. Rickon. Jon started forward almost immediately, as Ramsay took a dagger and sliced through Rickon’s bindings. Sansa felt her stomach roil as she saw him whisper into her little brothers ear. She couldn’t hear the words; but she could _feel_ them from where she sat.

Rickon began to run into the battlefield. _Oh, no_. Jon – kind, good, heroic Jon – kicked his horse faster, as Ramsay pulled out a bow and arrow and casually began shooting at her brother’s back. Sansa closed her eyes. _No. No, Jon. Don’t._

One arrow – missed. Two. Three. Jon was nearly halfway across the field, going full tilt. The fourth hit its mark. Sansa closed her eyes and allowed herself one intense moment of grief – no matter how she’d resigned herself, the loss ripped through her insides, fresh, hot, and raw. She opened her eyes to see Jon, on his horse, looking down at Rickon’s body.  “Don’t,” she whispered. “ _Don’t.”_

Ignoring her, Jon - kind, good, heroic Jon - kicked his horse into a flat-out gallop towards Ramsey. She turned to Podrick. “Go tell His Grace that Ramsay managed to lure Jon into the battlefield by sending my brother out as bait. That was the trick. Go _now._ ” Podrick took one look at Tormund leading the bulk of their forces to provide Jon with backup, and took off towards the Baratheon army.

Sansa watched, helpless, as the Northern army rushed the field, while Jon’s horse fell victim to the first volley of Bolton arrows. Kind, good, heroic, and _stupid_ Jon tumbled to the ground. Their foe unmounted, the Bolton cavalry charged forward, bearing down upon the lone figure in the middle of the grassy field.

Stupid, _stupid_ Jon.

The Stark forces reach Jon just as the cavalry bears down upon them. The clash of steel is brutal and frenzied, bodies and weapons colliding and falling in every direction. Sansa forced herself to watch, though she could barely make Jon out in the chaos. She focussed on Tormund, a giant with a beacon of red hair, and prayed to the Warrior that Stannis would get there in time.    


She saw Davos stay his archers, desperately trying to salvage the situation, but Ramsay, naturally, had no such compunction – his arrows rained down upon Stark men and his own alike. Volley after volley, the arrows fall upon the battle, and Sansa saw Davos look around wildly before urging the rest of their forces to join the fray. Stannis was coming, he knew he was coming – but like Sansa, he was afraid that if they waited it would be too late. She and Brienne shared worried looks, but Brienne remained resolutely at her side, Ghost or no Ghost.  
  
With a sickening horror, Sansa watched the entirety of the Northern forces get boxed in all sides, a mountain of bodies on one side, and men bearing tall shields and swords circling the rest, effectively trapping them with a solid wall of metal. As they advanced, the shields protected them, while giant spears reached through to fell her men. It was ruthless, cruel, and efficient. Ramsey and his brutal little traps.

She and Brienne turned at the sound of a horn, and relief washed over her. Stannis and his men rode bore down upon the field below with a fury, the stag of the Baratheon banners streaming high. She watched as some of the Bolton rearguard immediately turned to make a retreat behind Ramsay’s back, bolting for Winterfell at high speed. “Open the gates!” she heard them yell. “OPEN THE GATES!”

Dazed, Ramsay watched as the Baratheon cavalry swung around the rear of the Bolton shieldbearers, circling around to knock them down in a solid wave of ruthless efficiency that cut through his forces in seconds. Sansa allowed herself a slow smile at the stunned look on his face. “Games aren’t so much fun when you lose, are they, Ramsay?” she murmured. Podrick rejoined them, a little out of breath, and Sansa clucked at Ghost. “Come on. To Winterfell.”

_~*~*~*~_

Stannis wheeled his horse after his first turn around the battle, sword at the ready, and searched out the Bolton bastard. Jon Snow, apparently having the same thought now that the Baratheon men were ferociously cutting down the forces that had pinned him down, spotted the man at the same time. Ramsey took one look at him, then at Stannis, and with a quite satisfying look of fear on his face, turned tail to beat a retreat back to the castle.  

Stannis grinned savagely, and with a neat turn of his sword and rage swimming in his blood, kicked his destrier into pursuit at top speed. He galloped through the battle, past Jon Snow on foot and closed the distance between him and the depraved, misbegotten mongrel as the boy reached the gates.

“Close the gates!” Ramsay screamed, pulling into the courtyard. “CLOSE THEM!” He swung around, and dismounted – and stopped, confused, as the gates remained open. All around the courtyard, the bodies of Bolton men and the archers from the wall littered the ground, while a few more stood quietly at the doors and around the courtyard, watching him. “What are you doing! WHAT’S GOING ON?”

A tall man by the gates, one he didn’t recognize, removed his helmet. “Well, you’re right fucked, son,” the Blackfish replied, matter-of-fact, just before Stannis stormed through the gate at full tilt, aiming a kick at Bolton's head that sent him sprawling.

Stannis dismounted, and faced the boy on the ground, staggering to stand. “Ramsey Bolton, I presume?” He kneed him in the stomach and brought down the butt of his sword on the back of his head, sending him back down to earth. “I’ve heard so much about you.” He reached down, pulled the stunned boy up by the front of his coat, and bared his teeth. “I’m Stannis Baratheon, the One True King of Westeros.” Stannis shoved the boy against the wall, cracking his head against the stone. “And it is my solemn duty to return this hold to its rightful rulers.” He lowered his voice to a growl, his mouth close to Ramsay’s ear: “ _And administer justice as I see fit.”_  He punched the boy a final time, gratified to see the boy slump to the ground. “Get him out of here,” he barked at Errol, standing at the ready nearby. 

Turning, he saw Sansa astride her grey mount at the gates, watching him, flanked on both sides by Brienne, Podrick and Ghost. Jon appeared behind them, out of breath from his run, and Ser Brynden joined them - clad in the Bolton armour Stannis had confiscated that first day with Sansa in the woods, that had allowed the Blackfish to infiltrate the Bolton ranks early that morning with a small force of Stannis' best fighters. 

It must have been the crashing adrenaline of battle affecting his perception, but the tableau at the gate gave Stannis the distinct impression of a she-wolf leading her pack. He shook away the fanciful thought and nodded briskly. “House Stark, Winterfell is yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, couldn't save Rickon, but I saved Wun Wun! Yay, Wun Wun! And it might not be obvious, but Stannis got there a little faster than the Knights of the Vale, so not as many died during the shield-press move.
> 
> (PS: I hope that bit between Ramsay and Stannis wasn't too cheesy. LET ME BE SELF-INDULGENT, IT'S FANFIC.)


	19. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay gets his.

  
“House Stark, Winterfell is yours.”  The king retrieved his sword from the ground and stalked towards them, so confident in his orders to his men that he didn’t even look back, sheathing his sword as Ramsay was unceremoniously lifted and dragged towards the kennels. Sansa found her breath caught in her throat.  

They had arrived to the gates just in time to see the King had clobber Ramsay over the head with his sword and throw him up against the wall. It perhaps wasn’t ladylike to admit that she would carry the sight of that single punch to Ramsay’s face in the darkest part of her heart with her always, but it was her truth.

Her other truth was that she was deeply struck by the fact that Stannis Baratheon – bloodied, sweaty, a warrior marching crossing her courtyard with eyes blazing with the fire of battle and the ferocious satisfaction of victory gracing his face - was actually an _intensely_ attractive man. She tried to pull herself together as he approached, his gaze seemingly locked on hers. How had she not noticed before? She blinked rapidly, forced air into her lungs. This was hardly the time for such thoughts – she had her home back, but Rickon was _dead._  She must be in some kind of shock, transferring her emotional gratification at Ramsay’s comeuppance to the man who had delivered it.

“Lady Sansa, “ he bowed his head, “I regret to inform you that I have found your lord husband guilty of treason. He will not live to see another day.”

Wordless, Sansa nodded, and was distracted by her uncle moving to help her down from her horse. “Good plan, Baratheon,” the Blackfish commended,  settling her to the ground and turning to the king. “That little bit of subterfuge worked out well.”

“Yes, well,” the king responded flatly, switching his gaze to Jon Snow and firming his mouth into a thin line. “At least some things went as planned.”

The Lord of Winterfell flushed, “I’m sorry, Your Grace. Sansa warned me, you warned me … but I thought I could save Rickon. I truly thought I could.” His eyes went to Sansa, and Ser Brynden, grief and shame clear across his face, and colouring every word. “I’m so sorry I didn’t.”

The Blackfish was gruff. “I wasn’t able to find a way to free the boy either, Lord Stark. Ramsay had him bound and surrounded, and making an attempt would have jeopardized everything. A damned tragedy.”

Stannis held his gaze firm. “Lord Stark, you are an excellent swordsman, and a good man. But a good _lord_ must not take foolish gambles with the lives of his sworn men. I have lost men in battle, many men. If lives must be lost in the line of duty and honour, so be it. But to charge carelessly and abandon one’s strategy is disrespecting your sworn bannermen and their loyalty in you. You must learn to control yourself and your emotions, and marshal your resources responsibly. We can hardly defeat the dead if our own men die needlessly before they even arrive.”

Sansa, though she agreed with the King, looked with pity at her miserable brother and his hung head. Stannis’ eyes flicked back to her face and back to Jon’s, and his stern tone relenting somewhat. “I’m sorry the boy is dead. And I cannot swear to how I may have acted if Shireen was in his place, and I in yours. We all must learn from our mistakes and make better choices in the future.  Come, Lord Snow. Let us return to our troops and take stock of our victory. ”

Nodding, Jon and the Blackfish began to make preparations to head back to the battlefield, and as the King’s men tore down the Bolton flags and replaced them with the sigil of House Stark, Sansa found her voice. She reached out touch the king’s arm. “Your Grace.”

He paused, looking down at her hand and up again, puzzled and a little taken aback. “Lady Sansa?”

She swallowed. “What will happen to Ramsay?”  

“I promised your brother his head on a pike.” He frowned. “I trust you do not wish him pardoned.”

Her grip involuntarily tightened. “No.”

~ * ~ * ~

Stannis strode briskly into the kennels, where Ramsay sat tied to a chair inside the kennel, face bruised, dried blood crusted at his mouth.  “Bolton.”

Ramsay responded warily. “Baratheon.”

“King Stannis of House Baratheon, and you may address me as ‘Your Grace.’” Stannis pulled his mouth back to one side. “Though you don’t have much time left.”

“Of course. Off with my head, Your Grace?” Ramsay inquired, managing a defiant smirk. The deranged glint in his eye was visible even in the moonlight shadows of the unlit kennel, and Stannis felt a physical repulsion. Something had gone very wrong in the creation of the bastard Ramsay Bolton. He looked forward to putting the mad dog down for good.

“That’s the standard sentence for treason.” Stannis tilted his head. “But you’re hardly the standard treasonous miscreant, are you? Rape, torture, murder of a son of House Stark, murdering your own father. I hear you even like to hunt smallfolk with your mongrels for sport.”  Ramsay didn’t respond, merely continued to smirk in response. “I believe very deeply in justice, Ramsay Bolton. All men reap what they sow.” Stannis raised his voice, eyes never leaving Ramsay’s face. “Lady Sansa?”

Ramsay blanched as Sansa silently emerged from the shadows, a red she-wolf closing in on her prey. He recovered his bluster quickly, a malevolent, gleeful smile breaking across his face.  “Ah. Sansa. _Hello_ , Sansa.” She didn’t respond, staring him down, face hard as marble. He made his eyes go wide. “According to His Grace, our time together is about to come to an end.” He winked. “That’s all right. You can’t ever kill me, not _really_.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m a _part_ of you now, Sansa.”

Stannis’ fist flexed, but Sansa cut her eyes to him quickly, deterring him from action. She slowly advanced towards the bars. “You’re wrong, Ramsay. You will disappear.” Her voice was firm, unwavering, even calm. “Your words will disappear. Your house will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you will disappear.”

From the back of the kennels, Ramsay’s dogs began to growl, and Stannis took a grim satisfaction in the bolt of fear that crossed Bolton’s face.  “My hounds will never harm me,” he declared, uncertain.

“You haven’t fed them in seven days,” Sansa responded, mild. “You said it yourself.” 

"They’re loyal beasts,” he insisted, beginning to panic. 

“They were. Now they’re starving.”

Growling, one of Ramsay’s dogs approached his master put its front paws up on his legs. It sniffed his face. His composure unravelling, Ramsay’s voice went high. “Sit. Down! Down! _Down_!” Ramsay screamed as the first dog bit his face, and immediately, well-trained, the rest of the dogs converged and began to rip him apart.

Stannis stood silently, feeling it his duty to witness his sentence being carried out. He watched Sansa out of the corner of his eye, noting her remarkable composure facing the reality of the brutal justice she dispensed. Ramrod straight, unmoving, she appeared carved in ivory, glowing in the moon’s light as Ramsay’s screams rent the night. Finally the screams went quiet, and he gestured to the door with his closest approximation of a genteel sweep of his arm. “Lady Sansa.”

Nodding, she lead the way to the courtyard, stopping just outside the doors. He paused next to her, unsure – was this when she would collapse in feminine hysterics?

Sansa took a deep breath, a cloud evaporating into the cold air of the night. She turned to him. “Perhaps there will be enough left over to mount his head on the wall.”  Relieved, he nodded, only to freeze when - for the second time that day - she reached out to touch his forearm. “Thank you, Your Grace. For returning my home to me, for allowing me my justice.”

Stannis found himself momentarily flummoxed, the soft, warm, pressure of her hand sending a strange flush of heat through him. Suddenly dry of mouth, he coughed and answered shortly. “That is unnecessary, Lady Sansa. I will always do what is my duty.”  

“Yes,” she smiled, just a little, squeezing lightly. “Thank you, nonetheless.”

“You’re… you’re welcome,” he stammered, awkward, utterly out of his depth. Beautiful young ladies simply did not _look_ at him like that, so appreciatively, certainly did not _thank_ him. He found himself dumbly looking into her soft blue eyes, desperately searching his mind for appropriately courtly words, but as always - none came to him.

“Excuse me, Your Grace, Lady Sansa,” a silky voice interrupted. “I do not wish to intrude.”  

Sansa shifted, removing her hand from his arm and moving away from him. “Lord Baelish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's take this moment to appreciate Stannis' face. We talk about what a fox Sansa is all the time, but Stannis/Stephen Dillane can totally get it, amiright?
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/cKWdpsV)  
> 


	20. Sweetling

_Littlefinger._ The slim man presented himself submissively, all deference and respect, bowing deeply. Stannis eyed him, the man who sold Sansa to that horror of a boy they’d just put down, with a deep and abiding suspicion. “Lord Baelish,” he greeted the man, tone flat. “What brings you to Winterfell?”

“I came with the blessing of young Lord Arryn, who sent me with the Knights of the Vale to aid his dear cousin in her mission to reclaim her home. We reached Castle Cerwyn late this afternoon, where news of this morning’s victory greeted us. It is my deepest regret that we did not arrive in time to aid your cause, my lady,” Littlefinger dipped his head. “But I was pleasantly surprised to hear that rumours of your death were exaggerated, Your Grace. We all should have known that acts of sabotage from the likes of young Bolton would not thwart a man such as yourself.” Baelish’s words and manner were - as ever - solicitous, but Stannis noted a quick dart of eyes between himself and Sansa, lightning calculations being made behind his earnest expression.

Sansa’s tone was chilly. “Lady Brienne and her squire managed to fetch my uncle from Riverrun before you were able to move your knights as far as House Cerwyn, Lord Baelish. ”

Baelish paused, just the briefest of moments, eyes flitting back in forth. If Stannis were to hazard a guess, he was attempting to figure out how much Stannis knew of his clandestine visit to Castle Black, while trying to gauge her tone. “We did linger at Moat Cailin longer than we should have, perhaps, Lady Sansa. I misjudged the time it would take you to raise enough banners to successfully challenge the Boltons.” His lips quirked to the side, just a bit. “Of course, I did not know you had the entire Baratheon cavalry at your disposal.”

“Not holding back to see who the victor may be, then?” Sansa asked, a slim brow raised in an arch.

To his credit, Littlefinger looked wounded. “Of course not, Lady Sansa. As I explained to the Blackfish as I arrived outside, I deeply regret my hand in your marriage to the Bolton bastard. Though I know I can never make up for that lack of judgment, I was determined to lend any aid I could, to make amends.”

Sansa’s face, gratifyingly, remained skeptical. “In any case, my lord, the battle is won. You may return to the Vale at your earliest opportunity, secure in the knowledge that I am safe in my own home once again.”

“Ah, but Ser Brynden informs me that there are yet more battles to come, with the terrors bearing down upon on us from north of the Wall,” Baelish intoned, grave, turning to Stannis. “I will have to write to young Robin, and inform him of the changes in circumstance. My late wife declared The Vale neutral in the war for the Iron Throne, and the new Lord Arryn has not yet seen fit to change that stance – but you, being alive, aiding his cousin in her time of need, and the greater threat to the realm... I can promise nothing, Your Grace, but as Lord Protector of the Vale, I may be able to convince Robin to pledge the swords of the Vale in some way.”

Stannis considered him for a few beats, grinding his teeth. “Very well. The Houses of the North will be arriving over the next few days to discuss next steps. You will join as well, on behalf of the Vale.” Sansa glanced at him, frowning slightly. “It grows late, Lord Baelish, and the day has been long.”

Noting the implied dismissal, Littlefinger nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. Lady Sansa. Good evening.” He backed away, melding into the shadows, but the man’s eyes lingered on Sansa.    

Sansa remained quiet until she was sure he was out of earshot. “You can’t trust Baelish, Your Grace.”

“No,” he agreed, grim. “Only a fool would trust Littlefinger, Lady Sansa, and I am no fool.” He glanced down at her hand, considered offering her an arm, grimaced internally, and instead made the same awkward sweeping gesture as within the kennels - perhaps he was a _bit_ of a fool. “Please, after you, my lady.” As they made their way to the Great Keep, he continued, voice low. “I don’t trust him, but the Knights of the Vale could be key allies.” He frowned. “And he’s easier to keep an eye on here than anywhere.”

*~*~*~*~

A few days later, Sansa managed to finally make her way to the godswood to sit by the heart tree – the days since the reclamation of the castle had been too busy to make the time until then – caring for the troops setting up in the winter town, interning Rickon in the crypts, welcoming the northern bannermen and settling them in guest chambers, settling the King and Princess Shireen in their apartments, taking stock of minimal preparations for winter that the Boltons had undertook, and stripping all signs of Bolton occupation from her home. She sat underneath the tree, and took a deep breath in, inhaling the scent of the trees and the snow, and blowing a slow cleansing breath out, disappearing into vapour.  She thought of her parents, Robb and Rickon, and Arya and Bran, wherever they were.  If they were out there, maybe they would come home, when word spread that the Starks once again held Winterfell. She could hope.

Determined to focus on what she had, to be grateful, she forced herself to remember what she did have: she had Jon, and Uncle Brynden, though she’d not seen much of them, in the flurry of activity that had consumed her and the castle. While she reorganized Winterfell, the men were taking stock of the state of their losses, rations, sending ravens to allies and foes alike, and settling the Wildlings close enough to keep an eye on, but far enough away to not cause tension with the northern bannermen coming into their lands.

She wanted to believe that life would settle soon. But she knew this was but an interlude before more wars to come. She wondered if the King would stay at Winterfell, or march south to King’s Landing? The council of northerners was set to meet the next day to discuss the state of relations, and then she’d have a better idea of what to expect then.

She hadn’t had the courage to ask him, the few times she’d seen him. It was ridiculous – she was within the walls of her home, and the Blackfish and Jon were there with her, and she was likely as safe as she’d ever be – but Stannis was an undeniably reassuring presence. Though she smiled to herself a bit, remembering that small moment they had shared outside the kennels. As confident and swaggering and sure as the King presented himself at most times, seeing him momentarily speechless at a simple ‘thank you’ had been rather endearing.  

“Forgive me, my lady… if you’re at prayer.”

Baelish, standing in his dark robes against the snow. Of course. She had successfully managed to avoid him, since his arrival. She’d spoken briefly to Jon and the Blackfish, about him, though they’d had had a similarly pragmatic attitude about the Knights of the Vale as the king (“ _The dead are coming, Sansa!”_ ) and Brynden had surprised her with a nostalgic affection for the man, as her mother had had. (“ _Aye, Petyr arranged that marriage, my girl, but I don’t believe he meant you to come to harm. Hurting you would be like hurting Cat herself, and he loved her more than anything else. Even men as smart as Petyr Baelish can make mistakes; we’ll let him make his amends. And watch him._ ”)

Maybe he was right. It was possible Petyr had truly miscalculated, had truly meant her to come to no harm, had counted on Stannis marching on Winterfell and promptly returning her home to her with her already inside. “ _A betting man would put his money on Stannis. As it happens, I am a betting man.”_ Knowing Stannis now, seeing how relentless and fearsome in battle he was, she would have made that bet, too.

And yet.

Resigned, Sansa answered him. “No, Lord Baelish, I’m not at prayer. I prayed here often as a child, but for useless things. I was a stupid girl, but I’m not stupid anymore.” Gathering herself up, she approached him, slowly, gauging the look in his eye – fiercely intent, equal parts earnest and hungry.  She let the silence grow between them as she weighed what questions she might have, but it all boiled down to one question. She sighed. “What do you _want,_ Lord Baelish?” she asked, searching his face.

“You know what I want.” His voice was low.

“Once, I thought I did,” she admitted, unsure, but trying to remain cool. “I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t.” He moved closer, with an air of desperation. “Every time I’m faced with a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture. A picture of me on the Iron Throne… and _you_ by my side.” He swooped lower. “Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself: will this action help to make that picture a reality? And I only act if the answer is _yes.”_ He ran a reverent hand over the hair framing her face. _“_ I was slow to get here because I was busy making arrangements to find a better, safer marriage for you, in the Vale. I wanted to make amends, to fix it, to protect you. But you, my love,” he whispered into her ear, as she stood frozen to the spot. “You’ve exceeded my greatest expectations. Not only have you allied with Stannis and retaken your home, you’ve charmed a king, the most _uncharmable_ man in Westeros. A king without a wife, or a male heir.” His eyes focused on her mouth, a thumb sweeping her lip. “But of course you would. You’re the most beautiful woman in the realm, sweetling. A _queen._ Together, we’ll _climb._ ”  

His eyes glittered, and he dipped his head to kiss her, but she came to her senses in time, throwing a hand up to his chest. A cold stone settled in her stomach; so that was his game. He thought her to be manipulating the king, not seeing that she was a true ally and friend - but that was just how he saw people, how he saw them interact. He thought everyone used everyone, like he did.

But he also thought he loved her, that they were one of a kind, that she was his partner in his spiderweb of machinations. But he didn’t love her. Marrying her off to lord after lord, moves that only served to pivot himself closer to power. It didn’t even occur to marry her himself, not until it could get him a crown, or close to one. That wasn’t _love_. Not a healthy one, anyway. 

And they weren't one of a kind. She didn't use people, not like him. In her mind's eye, she saw him push Lysa through the moon door, and ice filled her veins.

“That’s a very pretty picture,” she said, cool, trying to control her racing heart, stepping away with as much dignity she could muster, quickly moving back towards the keep.  

His voice rang out behind her. “The past is gone for good, Sansa. You can mourn its departure or you can prepare for the future. Your brother holds Winterfell - but you, my love, you are the trueborn daughter of Ned Stark, the jewel of the North. You will tie the realm together.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, I KNOW, you all hate Littlefinger and wanted the Blackfish to clean his clock on sight. But other characters don't know what we know, guys! And Bran isn't home yet!
> 
> Don't worry, this isn't going to be a love triangle, I just need an antagonist.


	21. Agendas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The North gathers at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, LIFE got in the way (and also this one was a little more complicated to structure.)

Sansa sat at the far end of the high table, Jon mirroring her at the other end, looking out upon the representatives from the Northern houses and the Knights of the Vale, who were eyeing Tormund and his wildling companions with suspicion. The King had not yet arrived, but her uncle hovered behind her, arms crossed, keeping a weather eye on the crowd, while Petyr, as he was wont, was quietly lurking towards the side of the room. Brienne, by nature distrustful, instinctually positioned herself a few feet away from Baelish.

“You can’t expect Knights of the Vale to side with wildling invaders,” she heard a knight mutter, though none to quietly.

“We didn’t _invade_ ,” Tormund enunciated. “We were _invited_.”

“Not by _me_ ,” sniffed the knight.

“No, they were invited by me,” Stannis briskly strode into the hall, Davos close on his heels. He approached the high table, circled around it. “As did Lord Stark, of course.”

“All hail Stannis of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and the one True King of Westeros,” Davos intoned, slightly out of breath, as Stannis settled between Jon and Sansa, nodding briskly to the younger man, before staring down the men of the Vale and the assorted northmen, who muttered and pulled grumpy faces amongst themselves.

“The wildlings fought bravely with the men of the north and have earned a place here south of the wall.” Stannis’ tone, as was standard, brooked no argument.

“My father used to say we find our true friends on the battlefield, and the wildlings have proven themselves friend,” Jon concurred. “We’ll soon be facing the Army of the Dead, and the Wall hasn’t been properly manned in centuries.” He looked to Tormund, questioning. “You do prefer to be as north as possible.”  

“You want us to man the castles for you?” Tormund asked.

"Yes. You’ll have the castles along the Wall as shelter, as well as access to the surrounding Gift, of course.”

Tormund nodded. “Then that's where we'll go. Looks like we're the Night's Watch now,” he teased, waggling his eyebrows at the men of the Vale.

Sansa’s voice was cool as she interjected. “If I’m not mistaken, the Gift borders the lands of Last Hearth and Karhold.”

Yohn Royce stood and glowered _._ “The Umbers and the Karstarks betrayed the North. Their castles should be torn down with not a stone left standing.”

“The castles have committed no crimes,” Sansa responded, eyes fixed upon Ned Umber and Alys Carstark, hiding in the corner of the hall. “And we need every fortress we have for the wars to come. But I’m not sure they should remain in the possession of those families who handed over Rickon Stark, trueborn son of Ned Stark, to Ramsey Bolton to be murdered in front of our eyes.” The hall fell silent.

Jon frowned. “The Umbers and the Karstarks have fought beside the Starks for centuries. They've kept faith for generations.”

Sansa turned to him, jaw tense. “And then they _broke_ faith. They fought with Ramsey to kill _our_ men. There must be punishment for treason, and reward for loyalty.” Mutters of agreement echoed through the hall.

“The punishment for treason is death. Smalljon Umber and Harald Karstark died on the field of battle. I'm not going to strip these families of their ancestral homes because of the crimes of a few reckless sons!” Jon protested, and Stannis waved a hand between the two of them.

“Enough.” Stannis eyed the quivering young representatives of Houses Umber and Karstark. “You’re both correct. House Stark is owed justice, and sons should not pay for the sins of the father.” He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin and grinding his teeth, before dropping his hand. “Houses Karstark and Umber can choose to bend the knee to House Stark once again, and may keep their homes - but they will be stripped of half of their lands, which will be added to the wildling’s Gift in recognition of their service to the North.”  

Ned and Alys appeared relieved, and - apparently quite convinced they’d been about to be hauled to an execution block by Sansa herself - readily agreed. As the two knelt to Jon and swore their fealty, Stannis exchanged a quick glance with Sansa, who acknowledged her acceptance of his ruling with a small dip of her chin.

With Houses Karstark and Umber sworn back into the Northern fold, Stannis pressed forward with other matters at hand. “Manning the Wall cannot be the only defense, of course. We know the wights and white walkers are vulnerable to Valeryan steel, fire, and dragonglass. Dragonstone sits on a mine of dragonglass and the Targaryens decorated the entire keep with it. My ships will go south to mine the reserves and strip the castle bare.” He paused to question Jon. “The Tarly boy has made his way to Old Town by now, has he not?” Stannis narrowed his eyes at Jon’s nod, picturing a watery hellscape of ships engulfed in green flames. “We’ll write him to if he can find anything on the making of wildfire. The Alchemist’s Guild doesn’t like to share its secrets, but that knowledge came from somewhere, and the boy seemed resourceful.”

Jon nodded. “I will write to Sam immediately, Your Grace, and I can go with the ships south to oversee mining the dragonglass.”

“Here now, I must protest at all this!” Robett Glover arose, sputtering. “You seem to be forgetting, Lord _Stark_ , Lady Sansa, that we in the North declared our independence from the seven kingdoms after Joffrey Baratheon took your father’s head! And now another Baratheon sits here in Winterfell, issuing orders -“

Before Stannis could respond, Sansa broke in, her voice slipping into chilly tones. “Lord Glover, I was in King’s Landing with my father when he lost his head. He lost his head because in the course of his duty, he discovered Cersei Lannister’s incestuous deceit. He lost his head because he felt it his duty to place King Robert’s rightful heir on the throne. Our sole enemy in the South is House Lannister - and anyone who allies with them. Stannis Baratheon fought for Winterfell and for House Stark when many in the north, _such as yourself_ , chose not to answer the call. We are sitting here, free of the treachery of House Bolton, due to King Stannis, and Lord Stark has knelt and sworn our fealty to him.”

Flushing to a mottled red, Glover protested. “Lady Sansa, I did not fight beside you on the field for Winterfell and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong and ask forgiveness. But now our _Warden_ plans to leave us, while _His Grace_ marches on King’s Land-”

Tearing his eyes from Sansa’s profile, Stannis responded in blunt tones. “I am the one true King of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Glover, but a march on King’s Landing to press my claim is no longer my priority. The dead march on the Wall, and the safety of the North - and the realm - is at greater risk from a threat much worse than the likes of Tommen and Cersei Lannister. Save my fleet, my forces will also remain here to defend the North.”

Murmurs – some approving, some still mutinous - broke out amongst the gathered men, and one rose.  “Lord Stark,” a man said, rising to his feet. Lord Manderly of White Harbour adjusted his furs. “I have conferred with a number of the lords prior to this meeting, and I acknowledge the honour in House Stark’s decision to bend the knee, considering Lord Baratheon’s service to House Stark. We are not opposed to re-establishing an alliance with House Baratheon. But we do have concerns we feel ought to be addressed.”

“Concerns?” Stannis replied, dry.

“Yes, Your Grace. Your lack of an heir is one.”

Stannis raised a brow. “I _have_ an heir.”

“You have one daughter, and by all accounts, a bright and kind one. However, on the sole occasion a daughter inherited the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms, the realm devolved into civil war. And as House Stark can attest – even a house with _three_ sons can find themselves falling short in times of war. I appreciate both you and Lord Stark are focussed on the immediate threat from Beyond the Wall, and succession might not be an immediate concern. But it is a problem that cannot be dismissed out of hand, not for the long term security of the realm.”  

Jon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why do I get the feeling you have a suggestion to make, Lord Manderly?”

Lord Manderly coughed, glanced around him for encouragement and nods of support from the men surrounding him. “Lord Stark, it appears to many of us that there is a unique opportunity to unite the North with House Baratheon, to permanently rebuild this alliance and unite the realm, _and_ provide it with heirs – through marriage.” The implication of the statement ricocheted around the room, and the murmurs stilled.

Stannis found himself stunned into a rare silence, while Sansa froze into a porcelain statue next to him, face inscrutable.  Her uncle felt no such need to hide his feelings, however, erupting from behind her. “Gods above, Manderly, my niece has been forced into two godsdamn marriages already! Do you _really_ think I’m going to let some lords - who couldn’t even be bothered to answer her banner call - force her into another?”

Manderly puffed himself up. “Now see here, Tully, my son _died_ for Robb Stark! I didn’t commit my men to your cause ‘cause I didn’t want more Manderlys dying for nothing, and I don’t think it’s totally unreasonable -“

Tully boomed louder, cutting him off. “Lady Sansa’s next marriage will be determined by her _family,_ Manderly, not you and your band of cowardly opportunists!”  

Lyanna Mormont stood abruptly, voice ringing through the hall. “Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly. But you refused the call. You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover, but in their hour of greatest need, you too refused the call. But House Mormont answered. House Mormont answered House Stark, and aided the King’s men, and fought with them on the field of battle. But the King planned to liberate Winterfell even before he allied with House Stark; he intended to do so simply because it was just. I first refused to help him; I didn’t know him, or trust him. But I now know the King now, and respect him, and I trust in his commitment to the people of the North. I will proudly kneel with House Stark.” She took a knee to the high table, a pillar of tiny dignity. She rose and inclined her head. “However, should both parties deem such a union as proposed to be in the interest of the realm, House Mormont shall not object.” She sat again without ceremony, and dared the room to challenge her with a stubborn tilt to her chin.

Stannis acknowledged this declaration with an awkward, but firm nod, inwardly appreciative of her intervention. His stomach bounced and clenched, uncomfortable, and he swallowed. “Thank you, Lady Mormont. And I acknowledge to all the unique lengths House Mormont went to to provide for me and my troops. We are grateful and your help will not be forgotten.” He cleared his throat. “As to the matter of marriage – “

“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Lord Baelish interjected, stepping forward and bowing deeply. “I have received a raven from Lord Arryn just this morning. He has given his leave for the Knights of the Vale to remain in the North and to fight in the coming war against the Night King. However, he remains ambivalent about supporting any claim for the Iron Throne at this time. As someone who admittedly had a hand in Lady Sansa’s unfortunate union with Ramsey Bolton – “ he cut his eyes to the Blackfish, the perfect picture of contrite regret – “I am obviously hesitant to involve myself further in such matters. But I feel I would be remiss if I did not note that should Robert’s dearest and most treasured Northern cousin be joined in marriage to House Baratheon... Well,  that very well could sway him to support of your claim.” He bowed again, meek and deferential, and backed away to his place at the wall, where Brienne of Tarth fixed him with a plain look that promised blood.

Jon stood. “That’s enough. We must focus on preparing ourselves for the coming war, or there will be no heirs to the Iron Throne at all. I will leave for Dragonstone as soon as possible, and the King will stay here to fortify the castle and prepare the troops.” He paused, taking a quick glance at Stannis and Sansa, and the glowering countenance of the Blackfish, before turning back to the gathered houses.  “Your wishes have been noted, and we will discuss this matter amongst ourselves.”

Relieved that Jon had taken the lead on dispelling the tension himself, Stannis stood and dismissed the meeting. But he caught Sansa watching Baelish, rigid, her face drained of all colour - and for all the man’s practiced pretense, Stannis also caught the satisfied glint in Littlefinger’s smile as he gazed back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was pulling this one together I noted that Jon originally made a very impassioned statement that everyone -even GIRLS! - would learn to fight wights, and save Lyanna Mormont, that really went nowhere, didn't it? What a sloppily written show.


	22. Matchmaker Matchmaker Make Me A Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark/Baratheon alliance discusses the demands of the Northern houses.

“The absolute cheek,” Blackfish swore ripely, pushing through the doors. He headed straight for the side table to pour himself two fingers of spirits, spun around and squinted one eye at Jon and Sansa as they followed him into the solar - Jon frowning, and Sansa still pale – and gestured with the finger of his drink hand. “Don’t you worry, Sansa my girl, you’re not getting married off to anyone you don’t _want_ to marry.” He tossed his drink back and grimaced, eyeing Stannis and Davos as they entered the room as well.

“His Grace will do you the benefit of assuming your reservations are not due to objections about his personal character,” Davos commented mildly, eyes dancing between the two generals with a tinge of worry.

Stannis waved him off. “Ser Brynden is long known to have a personal disdain for the idea of marriage for duty, Davos.” He laced his tone with a note of censure – after all, he and Blackfish did not see eye-to-eye on familial duty. Of course, Blackfish had managed to avoid spending decades with an unpleasant wife for whom he felt little warmth. “Under the particular circumstances,” he awkwardly added, noting the continued pallor of Sansa’s face, “I do not take personal offense.”

“I’ll note that the last politically-arranged marriage I condoned ended in a slaughter at the Twins, so perhaps I have a point, eh? Northern lords,” the Blackfish grimaced, pouring himself another drink. “I always forget what pains in the asses they are. Can’t be bothered to pick up a sword to avenge your murdered family, can ye, Manderly, but _matchmaking_ , oh, you’ve got all the time in the _world_ for that. Gods.”

“It isn’t Manderly,” Sansa broke in, quiet. “It’s Baelish.”

“Eh?” The Blackfish paused mid-rant.

Sansa raised sad eyes to him, and then to Stannis and Davos. “It’s Lord Baelish pushing the match, Your Grace.”

“Baelish?” Davos questioned. “How does such a move benefit him?”

Sansa swallowed. “Through me.” She forced herself to meet the King’s eyes. “You already know he can’t be trusted, Your Grace, but you have to understand just how dangerous Baelish is.”

“Littlefinger? Dangerous?” Her uncle expressed doubt, but Stannis kept his eyes on Sansa.

“Yes. I…. I was not entirely forthcoming with you when we first met, Your Grace,” Sansa stuttered, uncharacteristically nervous. “I didn’t know you, that first day in the tent, only by reputation”  - she glanced briefly at Davos’ hand – “But you need to know.” She took a deep breath. “Baelish conspired in Joffrey’s murder – I do not know with whom, but he told me it was revenge for my mother’s murder, and he used the confusion to help me escape. I believed him. Then we reached the Eyrie, and he married Aunt Lysa… She… she was not well.” Sansa paused to glance worriedly at her uncle, but braved on. “She was very besotted with Baelish, and thought sending Sweetrobin to you for fostering was a betrayal, I think, but I… I don’t know for sure, but I.. I think he manipulated her into killing Lord Arryn. She said she killed Lord Arryn for him. And then –“ She broke off, and Jon placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Go on, Sansa,” Stannis ordered, his tension at her discomfort making him sound more brusque than he liked. He cleared his throat a bit. 

“We had not been at the Eyrie for very long, when Baelish… kissed me,” Sansa continued, forcing herself through her confession to look at him directly, though her cheeks were going red. “He kissed me in the courtyard and Lysa saw it. She sent for me to have me alone in the throne room and… and she tried to push me through the moon door.” She turned to look at the Blackfish, at his thunderous expression, instead. “I’m sorry, but she did. She was mad, mad _for_ _him_ at least. And Baelish saved me. But after he did… he threw her through the moon door, like she was nothing to him.” She turned from Blackfish’s shocked expression to Stannis once again, with some shame. “I… I lied for him to Yohn Royce and the elders of the Vale when they investigated. My own aunt had tried to kill me – I didn’t know them, I didn’t think I had anyone but him, and he said… he said he just wanted to protect me.” She broke, and looked at her hands. “I thought he’d protect me. And then he sold me to the Boltons.” She gathered herself, squaring her shoulders and meeting his eyes again. “Taking out John Arryn, and marrying and killing Lysa got him the position of Lord Protector, but Baelish wants more – he covets the Iron Throne, with me at his side. He will kill to get what he wants, and he finds ways to do it that people don’t see coming. If you marry me, Your Grace…” She twisted her fingers together, anxious. “If you marry me, you’ll be in danger.”

Silence fell in the room. Abruptly, before Stannis could speak, her uncle leapt forward between them, and grasped her shoulders. “Thank you for telling us, Sansa. Please leave us, go see to the Princess and our other guests, see that they’re settled. Let us talk.”

Surprised, Sansa blinked, and nodded. Wordless, she dipped a small curtsy and fled the room.

Ser Brynden waited until the heavy door clicked behind her before wheeling on Stannis and pointing an emphatic finger at him. “Baratheon, if you’re got ideas to chop off that girl’s hand or tongue or _anything_ in the name of _justice_ , I swear to the gods I will run you through _right now_. She was a child, _alone_. Imagine if Shireen -”

“I would endeavour to avoid treasonous threats, Tully, I’m your _king_.” Stannis stood and glowered right back. “And I’ve no such intention. From her testimony, her crime was obstructing justice, and I daresay she’s been sorely punished already.” Mollified, Blackfish settled somewhat, but both he and Jon watched him hawkishly, ready to spring to Lady Sansa’s defense at any moment. “Littlefinger, on the other hand.” But he wasn’t sure he could try Baelish for any of his crimes. “John Arryn, Lysa Arryn, Joffrey.”

Blackfish frowned. “I’ll be one of the first to admit it - Lysa was never right, upstairs. Quite infatuated with Baelish from early on, deeply jealous of Cat. I don’t know how much he had to convince her to kill John – Sansa doesn’t even know - and she can’t testify.” He paused. “That he tossed her out the moon door is damned convenient for him.”

“She was trying to kill Sansa,” Jon pointed out. “And if she was unstable, if she was capable of following through with it… He could easily claim he just acted in her defense.”

“Ah yes, noble high-minded Baelish, whoremonger, interfering with his niece in his wife’s home,” Stannis bit out. “I’m sure his motives were very pure.” But Jon was right; they could try to hold a trial and pin Littlefinger down, but he was a master manipulator - and the whole thing could drag Sansa through the mud as well. The abuses she’d been dealt at the hands of Ramsey Bolton seemed more of enough of a punishment to him; it simply didn’t strike him as _just_ to put her through even more. He ground his teeth, well aware that only a few short months ago, none of the circumstances of her situation nor her subsequent abuse may have mitigated his justice at all, and the idea didn’t sit well with him. He coughed, moving on. “Joffrey.”

“Conspiracy. Unknown partners.” Davos frowned.

Gruff, Ser Brynden scratched his face. “Even if you got the details, it would be a right trick to convict Baelish of the murder of Joffrey Baratheon - the incest-bastard boy-king who had the Young Wolf, his entire family, and half the lords of the North slaughtered - without making him a hero.”

Dammit. Tully was right. Stannis fought a vicious urge to kick something as they stewed in silence.

“Well, Sansa’s right; he can’t be trusted, and needs to be treated as dangerous,” Jon finally concluded. “We keep an eye on him, at least.” Blackfish nodded his agreement whilst Stannis scowled. Slippery goddamn Baelish. He’d corner him, eventually. Somehow.

Davos, in the corner, coughed. “If the matter of Baelish himself must be dropped for now… might I suggest returning to the Northern lords’ proposal?” Stannis pulled himself up to his full height, wary, and the Blackfish began to gear up to shout some more - but Davos raised his hand gently. “They’re not _entirely_ wrong. It’s a match that makes more sense than most. You can’t hold the Seven Kingdoms without the support of the North, and a marriage to Lady Sansa not only quells the North’s inclination to declare independence, it also makes alliances with the Riverlands and the Vale. It’s worth discussing.”

“My niece is not going to be pressured into yet another marriage, Davos,” Tully snarled. “And that’s final.”

“Of course not,” Davos replied. “If she doesn’t want to, the idea will be put to bed. But I didn’t hear her say she was against the idea on its merits, did you? All I heard was that she was concerned for His Grace’s health if he did marry her.”

Stannis opened his mouth to argue, but paused, considering – _had_ Sansa objected to anything other than him becoming Baelish’s target? He’d thought her pallor a reaction to the idea of getting married again so soon (or, married _to him)_ , but… He closed his mouth, then grumbled, shaking his head. “Davos, she’s far too young for me.”

Davos cocked a brow, “Excuse me, Your Grace, but Jon Arryn was about twice your age and Lady Lysa younger than Lady Sansa when that match was made. And if you’ve a mind to sire some royal heirs, a young lady starting her childbearing years is a better choice than a woman nearing the end of hers - and if that young lady also bears striking resemblance to a mother who bore five healthy children, even more so.”

As he turned away to look out the window, Stannis noted with some irritation that Davos had been doing a rather lot of thinking about this. But he had to admit there was a lot of truth to what his Hand was saying. _Heirs._ He viciously stamped down on that cruel, quiet hope for a larger family that had tormented him for all his years with Selyse - but involuntarily, he flashed to that quiet moment in the courtyard, before Baelish had appeared, Sansa's hand on his arm and a small smile on her face. 

“Enough Davos,” Jon interrupted, angry. “Stop discussing my sister as if she’s a broodmare.”

“My apologies, Lord Stark,” Davos hastily soothed. “That isn’t my intention. I thought it went without saying that Lady Sansa is a stunning young woman of uncommon beauty, charm and intelligence. Any fool can see that. She’s also been through a great deal. I’m only pointing out why the Northern lords would clamour for such an alliance, and if the King should ever choose to take another Queen, she would be an obvious choice. I can’t think of anyone who would be more suitable.”

“In Lady Sansa’s case, it would not be a matter of me choosing her,” Stannis barked, turning back to the room. “Lady Sansa would have to be willing to accept me. There’s no point discussing it until she has indicated she’s amenable.”

The Blackfish’s mouth stopped in the process of whatever he’d been about to protest, and squinted hard at him. “Indeed,” he agreed slowly. “Though we do have to consider the fact that if Baelish is our enemy, we’re giving him what he wants. I never advise doing that.”

“I’m not making my decisions based on what goddamn Littlefinger wants or doesn’t want,” Stannis growled. “I’m not scared of that worm of a man.”

Jon had quieted, and was considering Stannis thoughtfully. “I have to admit, if I have to leave her behind while I mine in the Stormlands, the idea of my sister being under the sworn protection of multiple armies makes me feel better about it.”

“She’ll have that protection either way, Lord Stark,” Stannis returned, frowning. “I assure it.”  With that, the Blackfish leaned back, evaluating him silently.

“Well!” Davos clapped, and if Stannis wasn’t mistaken, the man appeared _very_ pleased with himself. “Someone ought to talk to Lady Sansa, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Did you know if you get iron hot enough, and apply consistent pressure, it can bend without breaking? True story!
> 
> • According to show-age, Sansa’s about 18 here, and Stannis is younger than Ned and Robert – we’ll say about 38. He’s just prematurely salt-and-peppery from that year of starvation, a lifetime of brother-bitterness, and Selyse misery! 
> 
> • (And Jon Arryn WAS in his 60s! and Lysa 16 years old! They’re really not that scandalous in the context. Honestly, in the real medieval history, a girl Sansa’s age scoring marriage with a man as young as Stannis was either totally standard, or like winning the medieval lottery since he’s a total daddy, etc.)
> 
> • Davos is a total shipper, y'all.


	23. Reservations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis bends that iron will, just a wee bit more.

The evening light saw Sansa sitting under the heart tree.  She’d spent the rest of the day distracting herself, administering to the needs of the castle and their guests – and judiciously avoiding Littlefinger – but after a few hours, she’d felt compelled to await her fate in the godswood. Her confession sat heavily with her, the effect of the words being spoken out loud making her feel ashamed and embarrassed, seeing herself now through the eyes of the King, a man known for his dedication to justice.

Staring into the trees, she tried to imagine what might come. She did not know what punishment the king would find appropriate for her deception and subversion of justice - Davos had smuggled in food to keep him alive and it wasn’t justification enough to keep his full fingers. Regardless, Davos was a man of good grace – even cheer -  and even maintained obvious devotion to the King who had carried out the punishment. Sansa looked down at her own hands, and flexed her fingers. Would she be able to handle her punishment so philosophically? She still deeply resented the beatings and lashes at the hands of Lannister men for her brother’s actions – but these were her own crimes.

Of course, she may simply be sent away to the Silent Sisters. She swallowed a lump in her throat, conflicted about whether that would be preferable or not. It might be appropriate, considering her silence in the fact of her aunt’s murder, but she had much difficulty picturing herself locked away in silence for the rest of her days. She looked again at her hands, debating the merits of momentary pain and long-term disfigurement versus a life of voiceless exile. Firmly, she decided if it was to be amputation, she would accept it stoically, with dignity.  

She hoped she would anyway. Sansa didn’t want to make the King think less of her than he might already.

“Lady Sansa.”

Startled out of her thoughts, she looked up to see the King standing at attention not far away, countenance grave and dark blue eyes serious. She took a deep breath to quell the butterflies fluttering about in a panic in her stomach, and rose as gracefully as she could. She saw no implement other than Lightbringer, and couldn’t deduce whether that meant she was about to be sent away or – surely she wasn’t to be _beheaded_. Sansa exhaled. “Your Grace.” She dipped a little, keeping her eyes downcast. “I presume you are here to pass judgment. I… submit myself to the King’s Justice.”  She raised her gaze to meet his, and saw a flash of surprise cross his face.

“Lady Sansa,”  he started, then stopped for a long moment, clearing his throat. “Lady Sansa, your crime is withholding information from the Vale elders in their pursuit of justice and allowing a murder to go unpunished. But if I am not mistaken you were young – not yet sixteen - and a vulnerable orphan relying on the protection of a guardian. I also acknowledge your confession was freely expressed, and given in service of the protection of your king and the realm. If you had said nothing at all, no one would be the wiser.” Stannis paused, clearly uncomfortable. “In that spirit, Lady Sansa, I ask you to let me make a confession of my own.”  A little stunned, and trying to understand, Sansa nodded, cautious. “While we were stationed at Castle Black, I saw Baelish arrive to the courtyard. I followed him to the hall where you met, and listened to your conversation with him.”

While the King’s demeanour remained crisp and formal, the tips of his ears burned pink, signalling the embarrassment he felt in admitting this information.  Sansa recalled how baldly she’d spoken in unleashing her anger on Littlefinger, how bluntly she’d detailed her treatment at the hands of Ramsey Bolton, and how uncomfortable the King had been when she’d first entered his solar that evening. She felt her cheeks flush in humiliation. Stannis saw this, and hurried on.

“I have never trusted Baelish, and I was unsure as to the nature his relationship with you – but those are pitiful excuses for my behaviour. Your honesty with the Crown since that meeting has more than demonstrated your loyalty and good faith. My eavesdropping was wholly out of character and beneath my dignity as your king, and I must beg your forgiveness.” The words were as stiff as his posture, everything about his demeanour screaming that these were words he rarely found himself speaking.

Bewildered at this turn of events, Sansa replied, slow and uncertain. “Of course, Your Grace. You are forgiven.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He paused, firming his mouth, formulating his next sentences. “I am not the most merciful of men, Lady Sansa, but I abhor hypocrisy, and have been humbled by my misstep. It has forced me to acknowledge that there are rare circumstances that compel us to act contrary to our true character.” He cleared his throat. “I also acknowledge that any justice you should face for your crime has already been more than paid at the hands of Ramsey Bolton. In light of these circumstances - and your freely given confession - I grant you pardon.”

Relief washed over Sansa in a hard wave, and she felt a little unsteady as she dipped a small curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace. Your mercy is a gift I will not forget.”

“Yes, well.” He coughed again, and gestured awkwardly to the bench. “If you will sit, Lady Sansa, I have something further to discuss with you.”

Sansa sank back down gratefully, composing herself as he paced back and forth a bit. “Yes, Your Grace?” she eventually prompted.

Stannis stopped and met her eyes briefly. “Your family and I have discussed amongst ourselves the Northern lords’ proposal.” Sansa stilled. “We are forced to acknowledge the broader merits of their proposition, however, your family is insistent that you be consulted before negotiations progress to the next stage. As you have already been forced into two ill-fated marriages, and knowing the extent of your mistreatment in the last, I find myself in agreement.”

Stunned, Sansa felt at a slight loss as to how to respond. “But Lord Baelish –“

“I am unconcerned with the machinations of Lord Baelish.” His eyes firmly stayed on hers, though a familiar glint – that fiery anticipation of battle – lit his gaze. “I fear neither him nor his plots. My sole concern is whether you are amenable to a permanent alliance between… my house and the North.”

His tone had remained brusque and declarative, but Sansa could see a hint of nerves flitting across his face. She opened her mouth to answer, stopped. She found herself standing and pacing under the heart tree. “I… I have reservations, Your Grace.”

“Reservations,” he echoed, his face closing down, becoming guarded. “Very well,” he nodded, making to back away.

“No, wait.” Sansa reached out, touched his forearm. “Please, Your Grace, I want to be clear.” Stannis looked to her hand, then to her face. She swallowed. “It is not you I have reservations about. Of all my prospective husbands, you are the closest to what my father wanted for me – someone brave, and gentle, and strong.”  He frowned deeply at that, and she found herself smiling kindly in response, squeezing her hand softly. “Perhaps not ’gentle’, but you are not cruel, and you have just demonstrated you can be merciful, Your Grace.” Her smile faded as she withdrew her hand, and she glanced at the heart tree, and tried to explain herself. “I used to come here all the time, as a child, and pray for foolish things – to go to King’s Landing and see the city lights, to attend beautiful balls and dance with handsome lords. I dreamed of being a queen without truly knowing what it meant.” She looked back to him. “My mother was a Tully, and I was raised to understand duty, to my family, my people. I do understand how this marriage would benefit the North, the realm. But I… I did not enjoy my time in King’s Landing, Your Grace. I have just returned to my home, and felt truly safe for the first time since my father died. I do not feel I belonged in the South, with its false smiles and its treacherous schemes and its vipers nests.” She attempted a weak smile. “I imagine your court would be very different than Robert’s, or Joffrey’s, but the crown will always attract those seeking power. Forgive me my weakness, Your Grace, but… these are my reservations.”

~*~*~*~

Stannis’ mouth was dry. Sansa couldn’t know what she looked like: standing tall and slim in her furs, warmly lit by the setting sun, snow swirling about her bright hair and dusting her feathery lashes, with the heart tree rising up behind her. She’d never looked more a faerie princess, and she could be _his_. He suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for his brother, who had been so besotted with Lyanna Stark he declared war on his king. Whatever base appeal Stark women held for Baratheon men, it was… very potent.

He gathered himself, trying to wrap his mind around the bizarre irony that now that he was king, now that it was possible he could have a woman _like her_ for his wife – the thing that repelled her from him was _the throne._

But Stannis forced himself to remember that he was a strategist. He could make this work.

“I see,” he bit out, mind racing. He held his hands behind his back to prevent any nervous gesturing as he paced a bit back and forth, studying the ground. “I quite understand your reluctance, of course. I also find King’s Landing barely tolerable.” He imagined it would be less so with a beautiful queen at his side, but refrained from saying so. He did not think it would help his case. “I understand that you have just regained your home, and are reluctant to leave. Of course, I plan to remain here at Winterfell for the foreseeable future; you would have time to spend here either way.” He frowned, considering long term solutions. “I would be amenable to your Queensguard and ladies companions to be comprised of as many Northerners as you wish, though I assure you my own guards would dedicate themselves to your safety as much as my own. You have proven yourself quite capable in these last weeks and your presence and counsel would be welcome at court; however, if King’s Landing proves intolerable for you, there is always Storm’s End. You and Shireen could spend as much of your time there as our duties would allow. It is not the North, but perhaps that would be an acceptable compromise. I could more easily visit there as time permitted.” He glanced at her, then away. “Naturally, whatever arrangement we agree upon would have to allow for the production of heirs.”  

Sansa looked a little stunned, but echoed him. “Naturally.”

“You are correct that the Iron Throne attracts schemers and assorted hangers-on, but I would hope that with your help, and Davos’, that we would be able to weed out the worst of them. We will also eliminate the houses of greatest threat to your safety, such as the Freys. Nasty family; no great loss. We can award the Twins to another house.” Stannis stopped and wracked his brain for more to add to the pot. “Preparations for winter have been disrupted by the wars. The Tyrells have allied with the Lannisters, marrying their daughter to not one but two Lannister kings. I have no compunction with commandeering Highgarden’s stores and providing regular shipments of grain to the North for the duration of winter. A little hardship would be good for the Reach; they have become far too comfortable.” He halted, and turned to face her, searching Sansa’s face. “Does any of this relieve your concerns, my lady?”

Stannis was gratified to see the smallest smile playing across her lips. “Yes, Your Grace. Considerably.”  

“Then I may return to your family and continue negotiations with the North, with your blessing?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Sansa folded her hands neatly in front of her.

“Excellent. Good evening, my lady.” Deciding it was best he stop speaking before he said anything that might change her mind, Stannis bowed awkwardly and quickly made his exit from the godswood.

But the picture of her beneath that heart tree, smiling at him in the swirling snow, stayed with him all through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stannis discovers the power of this thing called “mercy”! ( 🎶 _Loooooove can move mountains..._ 🎶 )
> 
> (Inspiration for Stannis's character arc can be found [here](https://bronzerook.tumblr.com/post/165490570542/justice-and-mercy).)


	24. Concessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis hammers out some details with the heads of the Northern houses.

Stannis eyed Ser Brynden’s bottle of spirits and made the rare serious consideration to pour himself a drink. He glanced Lord Stark and Ser Brynden to see how they fared under the noisy onslaught of Northern manoeuvring in this small council room; the former had flatly refused to engage in any proposed matches until the threat of the Night King had passed, and as his greatest concern in the current negotiation was his sister’s consent to the match and military support in fighting off the Night King, he’d had little to add thus far. The Blackfish appeared content to glower at the room at large, a silent but effective reminder to the gathered heads that they were not to trespass upon his niece’s wellbeing as they elbowed their way to greater influence.

Wedding arrangements were being promptly made, as Jon’s expedition to mine dragonglass was due to leave shortly, and he would be needed for the ceremony - Sansa herself was spared suffering through this particular meeting at the demand of the Winterfell seamstresses who were fretful about getting a suitable gown prepared in time. But notwithstanding the greater concern of the existential threat to the realm posed by an army of the risen dead, the Northern lords were griping about succession and special-status for the Northern lands. It simply wasn’t enough for him to marry the trueborn daughter of Ned Stark and elevate her to Queen consort, guaranteeing the protection of the territory his armies would provide. It was quickly becoming apparent that it was the intention of the Northern houses to get as close to _nominally_ bending the knee without _actually_ bending the knee as they possibly could.

Stannis recalled Lady Sansa’s counsel that “the North remembered”; that while Torrhen had kneeled to the Targaryen invaders, the Northern kings were an 8000-year long, proud line that had in their most recent years seen Rickard and Brandon Stark murdered by a mad Targaryen king, and Ned losing his head to a mad “Baratheon” king, and made an attempt to stymie his frustration. The North had just declared themselves independent once again, and were reluctant to walk back from the feeling of liberation.  He also attempted to take it as a compliment that even if he and Jon died in the upcoming battle, the lords had enough faith that there _would_ still be an “after” to fight over, though it seemed more likely that the lords were reacting mentally to the threat of the undead with some combination of a stubborn, aggressive denial combined with their natural ornery inclinations – and he had a feeling that opened them up quite easily to manipulation.

Though Baelish remained silent and deferential as the lords continued to argue themselves blue, hovering in the background, Stannis knew he was driving much of the discussion through backchannel conversations with lords like Manderly, and he did not enjoy the downright _knowing_ glint in Littlefinger’s eye. Stannis was doing his best to maintain his usual tough and uncompromising outward demeanour – while he understood the importance of an agreed-upon line of succession, particularly in a time of war, he felt little need to agree to pass over his daughter as his heir until he actually _had_ another heir. He also was disinclined to offer the North special privileges over other kingdoms, as they were proposing; it felt like an unwise precedent, and he had already committed to moving food stores from Highgarden, and it seemed unjust to elevate the North over all other kingdoms even further. (The contrary, stubborn part of him also didn’t feel it wise to concede to the North too easily without putting up some resistance, lest they get too used to getting their way.)

Still, he felt Littlefinger watching him avidly, as if he was being read as easily as a book – that Baelish knew _exactly_ how badly he wanted to make Sansa his queen, and how much Stannis would be willing to trade for it.

For her part, Shireen had expressed little interest in inheriting a crown when he’d informed her of his prospective marriage, and the potential scenario that any sons would displace her in the line. The princess had been nonplussed, as if she’d always expected this development. _“Oh, I understand, Father. I will of course do my duty if it comes to it, but I’ve been thinking I would like to dedicate myself to establishing places in Kings Landing where the smallfolk may learn their letters. Davos never had the opportunity when he was younger, and look at him now! Imagine how many other Davos’ could be out there in Fleabottom.”_ And then his clever daughter immediately launched into an impassioned argument about improving the lot of the small folk through broad educational schemes across the realm, denouncing – in her opinion - the complete waste of human potential the maester-dominated system engendered.

It appeared that freedom from Selyse’s domineering influence paired with time spent with the women of Bear Island had transformed his daughter into a far more confident and outspoken version of herself. ( _“Maesters don’t even_ allow _women to study_ , _Father, don’t you find that just absolutely_ preposterous _?”_ ) The shift was disconcerting, if he were to be honest, but he also could not find fault in her arguments. Shireen would probably make an excellent maester, after all, better than most young men he knew. He smiled to himself at the thought, but forced his attention back to the present conversation, where he sensed it was a good time to irritate the Northern lords with his own obstinate nature again.

“I must repeat, this discussion, while fascinating, appears to me to be a waste of time and energies best spent elsewhere. I’m a practical man, and the only heir that is not theoretical at this moment is the Princess Shireen. I don’t see the point in discussing it until there are other heirs to consider.“

Lord Glover bristled. “We might be willing to bend the knee to a Southorn lord, but should you fall against the Night King, Your Grace, bending the knee to a girl of eleven years is simply not acceptable to us.”

Lyanna Mormont raised her voice pointedly. “And why is that, Lord Glover?”

Flushing, Lord Glover coughed. “A _Southorn_ girl of eleven years, Lady Mormont.” Lyanna narrowed her eyes a bit, but fell quiet.

“But potentially kneeling to an infant girl is an acceptable scenario, is it?” Stannis inquired, dry.

 “A northern babe under Northern counsel, yes!”

Stannis regarded the man, then gazed around the room, and - noting Baelish’s mouth twitch into a smirk - clenched a fist out of sight. Knowing now that the man had taken liberties with a young girl under his protection – and not just any girl, but _Sansa_ \-  the slightest provocation sent Stannis’ blood boiling. Restraining himself from not confronting the man, or just tossing him out a window, was very near to physically painful.  There was also the unshakeable feeling of being manipulated that itched strongly beneath his skin, though he knew that the match was a good one regardless of the man’s machinations – but he read Baelish just as easily as he was being read.

Baelish wanted Sansa to give birth to an heir, perhaps two, and then – after Stannis had helpfully defeated the Night King and taken King’s Landing - be tragically widowed. The poor young queen regent would require assistance, particularly if her brother and uncle also met tragic ends (in battle or otherwise.) Her kindly uncle-by-marriage would step in as sober counsel, naturally - perhaps even marry the Queen Regent herself to solidify the support of the Vale, and for the benefit of _the realm._ Stannis scowled, knowing that in any throughline of Littlefinger’s plans, Lady Sansa was vulnerable to pressure and influence, and neither Shireen nor his other potential heirs were safe from assassination.

Stannis found himself struck by an idea, and forced himself to game out the various risks involved before speaking. “Lords of the North, I am disinclined to commit to a line of succession beyond those persons that already exist, and neither am I willing to elevate your kingdom over others. But let me propose an alternative.” Davos sent him a curious look, and Stannis now wished he had an opportunity to discuss the ramifications of this plan with him, but he knew in his gut that whatever danger this solution posed to himself, it was no worse than any other, and he refused to operate from a place of fear – especially in regards to Baelish. “Lady Sansa not only represents the last of an 8000-year proud royal bloodline, she has the unique position of having close family ties to both the Vale and the Riverlands, linking her to half the realm.  Her ladyship also played a key role in successfully liberating the North from Bolton control, and I have found her counsel impeccable and her character without reproach.” Stannis paused, one last gulp of residual conflicting emotion at gritting out the coming concession – but sometimes the world forces one’s hand. “I am prepared to offer Lady Sansa co-regency.”

The room erupted, and his allies in the room wore a uniform expression of surprise, eyebrows shooting up their foreheads. Even Baelish looked stunned, though delight lit his eyes. Yes, the possibility of murdering him even before an heir was produced would be thoroughly exciting for the man, Stannis noted, resigned. But Stannis was banking on the fact that he had at least enough time as the war with the undead to neutralize the Littlefinger threat, and perhaps even the war with the Lannisters – the man was one who would prefer others fight his wars so that he could swoop in and rule after the nasty bits were over. But the move simultaneously appeased Northern complaints – a Northern Queen who exercised as much power as he did  - and directly appealed to two other kingdoms besides, without officially elevating those kingdoms above the others. But beyond that, of all the men in this room – even more than the Blackfish and Jon Stark – he found he trusted Sansa Stark more than anyone else to rule the realm, and protect his daughter and other future heirs. And it would be easier for her to resist pressure of re-marriage as a queen in her own right.

Feeling more confident in the plan the more he thought about it, he turned his attention back to the room at large, cutting through the din with his curt tone. “Lady Sansa will be queen in her own right, and successor in the case of my death. You will have a wolf to whom to address your concerns, but the Princess Shireen will remain second in line until the birth of a male heir; she will still outrank a northern daughter. Is this a tolerable suggestion?”

The shift in the room was immediate, though Jon and Davos still looked gobsmacked. When he met Ser Brynden’s gaze, however, he was met with an approving nod, and the ghost of a smile.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Yes, Bluestocking Shireen is planting all sorts of ideas in her father's head <3
> 
> \- This co-regency compromise idear inspired by [William and Mary](http://www.tudorsandstuarts.com/monarchs/williamandmary.html), and my own inclination to make Sansa Queen of Everything


	25. News and Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big news all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeeeeey there! I know, I'm the worst! Summer waylaid me, I had computer problems, and then a small writer's block became a BIG writers block and the longer it went on, the more I felt I had to write A LOT to make up for it! But chapter 25 is here! And I hope you like it! Thanks for your patience and your kind, gentle nudges to get on with it.

“Well, that was quite a… something.” Davos’ tone wasn’t one of censure, exactly, as he and Jon and Ser Brynden followed Stannis out of the small meeting room and down the hall to his solar, but contained a note of mild reproach, at least. “Were you always planning on doing that, Your Grace?”

“No,” Stannis bit back. “But it became clear that it makes the most sense.” He threw himself into the chair at his desk and glowered, the choice he’d made still stinging a bit against his pride. “Giving into their demands for special status would cause ripple effects across the realm. Dorne will make demands, the Iron Islands, the Reach - it’ll never end. This way, the North feels they haven’t truly bent the knee, that one of their own is acknowledged as an equal and rules in the south, and their neighbours will almost certainly have to declare for us as well.” He ground his teeth. “If throwing them this bone keeps them happy, so be it. At least once Lady Sansa is queen, she can deal with the Northmen for me.”

“Excuse me your Grace, but this was less a bone and more a… skeleton,” Davos frowned.

“And Lord Baelish, Your Grace,” Jon protested.

“If Lord Baelish manages to kill me when I know he’s coming, I deserve to die,” Stannis snapped, growing impatient with the constant insistence that he should be afraid of a man he could cut down one-handed, with the blessing of justice. It did not help his mood that Brynden Tully was being far quieter than usual, watching the discussion from the door.  “And at least I know the realm will not fall under the care of an imbecile. Right now, I’m more concerned with the army to the North. Lord Stark, how goes preparations for your voyage?”

“Very nearly complete, my lord. The caravan will be able to leave shortly to prepare the ships.”

“Excellent, continue to oversee those preparations.” Stannis frowned. “Davos, perhaps you should go with Lord Stark to Dragonstone.”

“Your Grace?”

“You’re familiar with Dragonstone and its grounds, and its servants are familiar with you – it will ease Lord Stark’s arrival and overall mission to have you there, as my emissary. I have Ser Brynden here to help with fortification and military planning, and Lady Sansa to aid in diplomacy, and Lord Stark would certainly benefit from the advice of a good Hand in case he runs across any problems. Are you amenable?”

“I suppose I am, your Grace,”  Davos’ brow furrowed, clearly worried about leaving Stannis when he’d just made himself more vulnerable, but wise enough not to bring up the Baelish threat again. “I’ll be consumed with wedding preparations until we depart, though. A co-regency complicates things, in terms of the ceremony – Selyse’s crown will no longer do for Lady Sansa’s new role, I’m afraid. I’ll have to commandeer a smithy to get a suitable one prepared in time.”

To his chagrin, Stannis realized Davos was right. The red-gold flame crowns he’d had commissioned for himself and his consort would not do for a co-regency – a smaller version of his own crown sent the wrong signal. He understood the power of symbols enough to know that, distaste for jewels and ostentation aside, a crown needed to convey the authority of the person wearing it. “Take Selyse’s crown to melt down if you need to, I don’t know what resources are available here. I trust you to create something suitable; consult with the Winterfell smithy, or perhaps Lady Sansa herself. She’ll likely be the only one to ever wear it, and she’ll likely know the appropriate symbols of the North.”

Jon nodded. “Aye, Sansa always had a head for history and the lineages of the great houses, more than the rest of us.”

Davos waited a beat. “I suppose I’d be the one who informs her ladyship of this most recent development, then.”

Stannis stopped himself from wincing. “No, I should –“

“Your Grace!” Breathless, a page arrived at the door, waving several scrolls. “Urgent messages from King’s Landing!”

Frowning, Stannis gestured for the papers to be handed over, and read them in succession, silently. Then read them again.

Tully broke first. “Well, what is it?”

“It appears a large explosion of wildfire has destroyed the Great Sept of Baelor, and - as the trials of Loras and Cersei Lannister were in session - most of the court, the small counsel, the clergy and House Tyrell were taken with it.”

“By the gods,” Davos breathed, while Jon was stunned to silence, and Ser Brynden frowned, trying to parse the information.

“ _Cersei_ is dead?” the Blackfish asked, disbelieving.

“Oh, no, Cersei sent the wildfire to the trial to testify for her, it seems.” Stannis tapped the papers to his desk absently. “And she has now crowned herself Queen of the Andals and First Men.”  He ground his teeth and rapped his knuckles against the desk. “We could have used those wildfire stores.”

*~*~*

A knock sounded on the door, startling Sansa but not the seamstress working diligently on her gown, focussed to the extreme in pursuit of her task of completing the gown in such a haste. “Excuse me, Lady Sansa.” Davos appeared, tentatively poking his head into the room. In his hands was a crown of red gold flames, and he looked worried and preoccupied. “May I enter? They said you were well-clothed.”

“Ser Davos,” Sansa greeted him. “Yes, please, do come in.” She eyed the crown. “I suppose you’ve been sent with that for another kind of fitting.” Maerta, her seamstress, glanced up immediately and sized up the crown, surely calculating how it would look against her creation and the black Stannis would be cloaking her with. Nodding approval, she turned back to her work.

“Actually, no.” Davos cleared his throat. “Apologies, milady. I have news, and much of it His Grace wishes he could deliver himself, but he’s had several ravens from the South this afternoon and has found himself preoccupied.” He cleared his throat, glancing down at Maerta. “I’m not sure if this is news better heard alone.”

“It might be, Ser Davos,” Maerta growled around the pins in her mouth. “But if this gown is to be finished in time, my ears are going to have to hear it.”

Sansa, mildly amused, beckoned for a nonplussed Davos to sit. He declined, choosing instead to place the fiery crown on a table and pace. “Ser Davos?”

“I’m not sure where to begin, to be honest. Your ladyship spent some years in the South, I understand.” Davos frowned. “You knew the people at court.”

“Yes, I did,” Sansa replied, slowly, watching him. “I cared not for most of them, though I had a few friends.”

Davos grimaced. “There is perhaps no good way to say this, so forgive me, milady. His Grace has had ravens from King’s Landing, and we are told that most of the court, the clergy, the small council perished in the destruction of the Sept of Baelor.”

Sansa froze. “Destruction? Of the Great Sept?”

“An explosion of wild fire, Lady Sansa.” He coughed. “Cersei Lannister was due at trial there, alongside Loras Tyrell, but did not attend.”

“Loras.” Sansa paled and swallowed the rock that had appeared in her throat. “Margaery?”

“Unfortunately, she was among those in the Sept, along with most of House Tyrell.” Davos’ face was filled with sympathy, but he stopped short of offering a friendly hand in comfort, glancing down at Maerta below. Reminded, Sansa forced herself to draw upon her deep wells of composure. She recalled the green glow outside the windows of the castle during the Battle of the Blackwater, how bright and how long that fire had lit the sky. Cersei had murdered Margaery. Cersei had murdered _everyone_. “I see.”

“I’m not sure of the details but the boy Tommen died shortly thereafter,” Davos continued, slow. “And Cersei has now crowned herself Queen.”

“I see.” Sansa’s mind whirled. _Tommen_ , dead? Surely not by Cersei’s hand. “Do we know how Tommen died?”

“He fell from a window in the Red Keep. A window that faced the Sept, we were told, while it burned.”

Oh, Tommen. He’d always been sweet, and not strong. First Robert, then Joffrey, then his sister and Tywin - then his wife and almost everyone else he knew, obviously dead at the aggressive violence of his own mother. Sansa let out a slow, careful breath, feeling strangely like she was right there watching him jump, but also strangely removed: removed from King’s Landing, removed from the Lannisters. In some ways, the years she lived among them felt like they’d happened to someone else.  She nodded to Davos. “Is that all?”

He hesitated. “No.” He flicked his eyes downward again, but continued on. “Prior to the ravens, His Grace managed to reach a deal with the lords of the north to the satisfaction of all involved. His Grace has offered a co-regency.”

“Co-regency?”

“Yes, milady. Once you marry His Grace, you will also be queen, in your own right. Not queen consort.” Davos’ eyes were heavy with meaning.

Sansa was stunned to silence. _Queen?_ Wha – _how?_

Davos continued on. “There was a great concern with the line of succession, considering the troubles at hand, and a Northern reluctance to accept Princess Shireen. This was King Stannis’ solution.”

 _King Stannis’ solution._ Sansa cast her mind back to the godswood, and her marriage negotiations with His Grace. In her mind’s eye, she watched him pace, tall and strong, offering practical solutions and efficiently addressing her concerns one-by-one. She remembered the soft, growing ball of warmth that had built in her stomach as she’d stood under the heart tree watching him – so unlike the pains she’d experienced standing in almost the same spot when offering vows to Ramsey Bolton, sharp spears of ice that had stabbed through her stomach throughout the ceremony. In that moment, she’d felt that the godswood was trying to guide her  - that it had tried to warn her against Ramsey, and she hadn’t listened, writing it off as nerves.

But as she’d felt warmth build inside her, and Stannis’ intense gaze had met hers with a badly-disguised look of hope, she’d felt the wood guide her again. She had agreed to be his queen; to return to King’s Landing, with the King’s sworn commitment to provide her with whatever she needed to feel safe.

But this: this was beyond her imaginings, beyond anything she had thought or wanted to ask of him. No one who wore a crown was ever truly safe, that she knew. Being a queen in her own right would make her a target of gods-knew-what schemes now and in the future; but it also made her stronger and more insulated to the various fates that tended to await queen consorts should they outlive their husbands. She pictured Cersei after Robert’s death, seething at her own father in the frustration at power he denied her even while she was Queen Regent - unable to sit on the Iron Throne, reduced mostly to trying to control, influence, and protect her mad son.

Stannis’ decision was not only a meaningful concession to the North, and a show of faith in her, it was extra step taken to provide her with the security and autonomy she needed. She also knew, meeting Davos’ concerned gaze, that it meant the King was putting himself at considerable risk to do it. She swallowed, and nodded to the King’s Hand, showing him that she understood. He relaxed, infinitesimally, and nodded back.

“His Grace does me a great honour,” she eventually managed, mindful of Maerta and any other lurking workers who may be within earshot. “And I will honour the North and our people, and accept.”

Davos nodded, and reached for the fire-crown. “His Grace realizes that this crown is no longer suitable for the role of co-regent, as this is a smaller version of his own. He indicated you should be consulted on an appropriate design for the station.”

Sansa carefully accepted the circle of metal from him and gently turned it in her hands, considering it. This was a test, but not necessarily from Davos, or Stannis – a test for herself, as this was the moment to choose how she wanted to move forward into her next life. Iron was the metal of the Northern kings– she’d heard tell of Rob fashioning a crown of swords like the old kings, and she knew the importance of that symbolism - but she didn’t think that would be appropriate for her; she would not be the warrior in her union. She traced the tip of one of the flames with a light finger. She also felt little desire to declare for the red woman’s religion or to embrace its flame imagery, though she knew Stannis used it to secure the loyalty of many of his followers.

But she did need to find a way to symbolize unity with House Baratheon, with Stannis. She had learned many things from Cersei Lannister, and in many ways was grateful for those lessons – but she did not want to be Cersei Lannister. She did not want to seethe in resentment at a husband she hated; she did not want to put the single pursuit of her own power above everything else. She did not want to murder hundreds, including an entire house she’d allied with, to secure her own position. Margaery's beautiful face flashed before her.  No, she did not want to be Cersei.

Stannis had exposed himself to danger in an attempt to provide her with more security, and she felt it important to declare that while she would be Queen, she would also be _his_ Queen, his partner. She wanted to both acknowledge his major concession, and signal to all that she planned to move forward in partnership with him, House Stark and House Baratheon united for the good of the realm. “I have some ideas, Ser Davos. Tell me what you think.”


	26. Cyvasse Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The destruction of the Great Sept sends ripple effects across the realm.

After those first ravens brought the news of the Sept of Baelor, many more followed, arriving in a steady trickle from houses great and small as the realm reacted to Cersei’s massacre of the Faith and the court of King’s Landing. Almost overnight, the pieces on the cyvasse board rearranged themselves, and the King found himself with much broader, if tentative, support. Though the realm by and large had found him a less-desirable option in the immediate wake of Robert’s death, there now appeared to be a shortage of kings and his legitimate claim was intact and more compelling than ever. Reports of his heroic arrival at the Wall had spread, as had news of his liberation of Winterfell and impending marriage to Sansa Stark; with the attack on the Faith, anyone looking for an alternative option to a self-coronated mad queen with an arsenal of wildfire found the impending union of Stannis Baratheon and Sansa Stark very interesting indeed.   

Notably, Robert Arryn officially broke the Vale’s neutrality; Cersei’s attack on the Sept was one step too far, and considering Stannis’ impending marriage to his dear cousin Sansa, he would happily kneel to the true King and Queen of Westeros, for the good of the realm. Stunning them all, Olenna Tyrell – the Queen of Thorns herself - arrived personally at the doors of Winterfell, wrapped in layers of furs and looking altogether miserable. Olenna imperiously informed them that she had originally made plans to escape the religious madness of King’s Landing by sailing south around Dorne to Highgarden, but that when the Sept exploded with her entire family inside, she immediately changed her plans to personally parley with Stannis instead on behalf of the Reach, having recently received word of his successful campaign at Winterfell.

Having made the trip via sea herself, Sansa wondered at Olenna’s ability to arrive at Winterfell so quickly, but Olenna waved her hands, indicating the winds of winter had hastened her journey beyond her captain’s best hopes. “The journey by sea, at least,” she grumbled, sending a baleful glare at her poor mount. “The roads are an endless trial of bumps and jolts, to be sure. Come, find an old woman a fire, child.”

Stannis’ acceptance of Lady Olenna was grudging and chilly, considering the Tyrell backing of the Lannisters at Blackwater – but Sansa acted as an intermediary on behalf of her friend’s grandmother, quietly reminding the King that Olenna had paid for that choice by losing her entire family line, and that they ultimately would need the support of the Reach – and the Reach would be paying in food stores through the winter. Stannis scowled, but saw the wisdom in hosting the woman, at least for now. Guest rights were extended, and talks scheduled for after the wedding.

It was Olenna who filled in Sansa on the events of King’s Landing leading up to the destruction of the Sept – the galvanized support of the Faith by the smallfolk amongst the ruins of the War and Joffrey’s awful reign, Margaery and Loras’ imprisonment, Cersei’s walk of atonement through the streets, a humiliation that had resulted in the manifestation of her rage and thirst for vengeance in a column of green fire.

“I have to hand it to Cersei,” the Queen of Thorns said, sipping her tea by the fire. “She was very stupid, allowing the High Sparrow to fly as high as he did. But he woefully underestimated her. As did I.” Her eyes glinted a bit in the light of the fire. “Margaery had Tommen and the Sparrow in hand. She could have played that game through the end, I think. But these are not normal games, are they, my dear?” She asked, her shrewd gaze landing on Sansa’s, watching closely. “Are you quite sure your betrothed isn’t a blazing zealot, Lady Sansa? Recent converts are often the most tiresome. I would feel I would not be a friend to you if I let you marry not only a humourless lobster, but a fanatic to boot.”

Sansa stifled her smile, and replied seriously. “Lady Olenna, the King is neither humourless, nor a zealot,” she replied, hesitating before continuing. “From what I gather, Queen Selyse was the fanatic, and I truly have not heard him invoke the Red God since she died and his priestess vanished.”

“Hmm.” Olenna sat back, evaluating her. “If you’re quite sure.” Sansa only smiled in response, and Olenna appeared satisfied. “If I have any advice for you,” she continued darkly, staring into the fireplace, “it would be to never let the Faith truly rebuild, nor let R’hllor get a foothold on these shores. Your hair is far too beautiful to be shorn, and I should not like any more queens to meet with fiery ends.” She sipped her tea, and considered. “Well, perhaps Cersei.”

As Jon needed to leave for Dragonstone as soon as possible, Davos and Sansa had little time to plan both wedding and coronation, and - Lady Olenna’s dark warnings fresh in her mind – Sansa knew it was imperative they strike the right note with the proceedings.  That neither she nor the King were strong adherents of the Faith was a complicated political issue for them to navigate. The loss of the Great Sept and its leadership, while a great blow, did not negate that most of the smallfolk and great houses still worshipped the Seven and that many saw the Faith as inextricably linked with the Iron Throne. Stannis’ public conversion and his reliance on the myth of Azor Ahai considerably raised tensions; a King of another religion easily heightened concerns that the Faith was under attack, especially as the numbers of those who followed the Lord of Light grew in number.

Excited whispers of an anti-Lannister outlaw brotherhood that lurked in the woods and resurrected the dead by the power of R’hllor had made it through the walls of Winterfell. As Jon was alive today from similar magics, Sansa could not deny the apparent power of that faith, and also could understand how the lore of the religion had helped Stannis martial support in the early days of the War of the Five Kings as well as inspire conversions in the smallfolk. But she was wary of any religion that aggressively declared itself the one true faith – she had been raised in a household that had accommodated both the old gods and the new, after all. She’d been raised in the Faith and had felt comfort from the Seven, but also felt the presence of the old gods every time she stepped into the weirwood, and only more so since returning as an adult. Respecting competing faiths was second nature, and while to some that could seem either foolishness or blasphemy, to her it was simple humility. The mysteries of the gods was beyond her mortal comprehension, and it was not her place - nor anyone else’s - to dictate gods to another.

The King had already taken a firm line with the Lord of Light’s Westerosi faithful, banning outright any burnings and human sacrifice under his reign - a position made only more intractable since Melisandre had targeted Shireen. If the Red God were to truly challenge the Faith of the Seven as the Faith had challenged and supplanted the old gods before them, Sansa felt it was critically important for she and Stannis to establish boundaries and expectations of the faith (and its priests) on their shores from the outset.

The key to ongoing peace would lay in compromise and respect – and keeping devout militants and religious institutional power in check. Religious civil war was obviously to be avoided at all costs, but the High Sparrow had also managed to accrue enough power and foment such a fervor that he’d been able to force the Queen Mother ( _Cersei Lannister_ , of all people) to walk naked in the streets in atonement. While that had ultimately been his downfall. Sansa herself had little interest in allowing either religion the opportunity for dominance, especially to the point where its leaders felt they could compete with the Throne and its justice.  

Sansa and Davos had agreed that selecting a septon as officiant was simple pragmatism. Having their union and Sansa’s coronation blessed by the Seven would go a long way in broadly legitimizing their claim to the Iron Throne. The Faith of the Seven also stood more on ceremony than either the followers of the old gods or the Lord of Light, and the unique circumstances of this union called for more occasion and ritual than Northern custom traditionally offered – and it also felt important to signal to Stannis’ more religious followers that they were both committing to be the King and Queen of the _entire_ realm, and all of its people.

Sourcing a septon for the proceedings had initially appeared difficult; Theon had tossed Winterfell’s septon, Chayle, into a well during his occupation of the castle, and they were otherwise scarce north of the Neck. But as fortune would have it, only days after Olenna’s arrival, a small band of septons from the Riverlands arrived at Winterfell, having been dispatched by what remained of the leadership to enter into discussions with Stannis on behalf of the Faith.

The recently-deceased High Sparrow had declared Stannis a demon-worshipper, that R’hllor and his followers had no place in the Seven Kingdoms, but the Riverlands septons were either more tolerant or open-minded, or simply desperate to ingratiate themselves with the Baratheon-Stark alliance and secure any future influence for the Faith. (Privately, considering the rot in the Faith’s institutions, and the cagey eyes of the septons, Davos and Sansa suspected the latter.)  Regardless, they now seemed cautiously willing to accept Stannis as King - partly because he was less inclined to commit mass murder, and partly because he was intending to marry a queen raised in their faith who had no plans to convert, and they only became more accepting when told Sansa would be reigning equally. In the shock and uncertainty of their current circumstances, this was apparently good _enough_ , and the invitation for one of them to act as officiant in the ceremonies was eagerly accepted as a welcome olive branch.

There were common elements in wedding customs in all three faiths, and Sansa and Davos wished to highlight those over the ways in which they differed. As Winterfell hosted the occasion, and due to the significance of crowning a Northern queen to a co-regency, the septon was surprisingly amenable to the ceremonies taking place in the godswood, and truncating the traditionally elaborate rituals of the Faith to be more in line with simpler Northern custom. (Perhaps, Davos supposed, the man simply did not want to stand overmuch in the cold.) The septon did, however, aggressively balk at the idea of the lighting of bonfires to represent R’hllor - but ultimately a compromise was struck to construct seven bonfires approximating the seven-pointed star, flaring out from the ceremony at the centre.  

“Either everyone will be happy, or everyone will see blasphemy,” Davos winked at her as he placed the base of her new crown to her brow to check the fit. “And I think that means we got it just right, enh?”

Mere days before the wedding, a second wave of ravens arrived with news of yet another massacre – this time at the Twins. The entirety of House Frey had been wiped out in a single night by an unknown assassin claiming retribution from the North. Edmure Tully, in a fit of competence, seized the opportunity to take back control of Riverrun, slaughtering all Frey and Lannister men inside. He sent a conciliatory note north to his uncle (who eyed the message with resigned distaste, but was mollified that neither Frey nor Lannister now held his home in their grasp) and to Stannis, indicating he welcomed him as cousin, and offered to bend the knee. In a matter of weeks, the Lannisters had lost control of everything north of the Westerlands, and maintained only a weak grasp on the Reach and Stormlands while Stannis and Olenna remained in the north. Cersei had won her battle against the Sparrows, but she was losing the Seven Kingdoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dealing with Stannis’ conversion and the religious politics is where I felt most out of my depth, not having read the books. I’m working off a lot of wikis here, and while this is mostly show-based, we’re clearly going with the version of Stannis that executed his brother-in-law for betraying him to the Lannisters, not over “false idols.” I toyed with the idea the idea of him just renouncing R’hllor altogether, damning the fallout, but since Book Stannis privately thought the gods were bullshit and used the Lord of Light as a useful means to an end, I landed on him continuing to do that here.
> 
> \- If I got anything waaaaaay off base, feel free to comment and I'll see if I can course-correct. 
> 
> \- Re: Olenna in the North – I found a timeline breakdown of the first few episodes of S7 on reddit with built-in travel-reality restrictions and backdated the events of 609/610 to work with it, and I am like 90% (?) sure my timeline works for getting her up north in this window (though she might have left a little earlier than she claims here… _DUN DUN DUN_.) 
> 
> \- Strict timeline adherence is likely to become less and less important as my “season” goes on and I make major tweaks to the story (and chapters are probably going to take more time to write), but I really did _try_ to keep things realistic as possible here. (But as GRRM says, “put down the stopwatch and enjoy the story.”)
> 
> \- I’ll admit I went with a septon officiant in large part because it gives me more of framework to work with – from what I can tell, Northern coronations tend to involve shouting “King/Queen of the North!” a lot and leaving it at that, and while that’s fun and catchy, repeatedly shouting “KING AND QUEEN OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS” is a bit more of a mouthful and I couldn't see it working.
> 
> \- I _absolutely_ meant this to be the wedding chapter but world building got away from me and it would be far too long now. Sorry! Next chapter!


	27. Wolf and Stag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *tosses confetti* It's a wedding!

Sansa allowed her maiden cloak to be carefully draped over her shoulders, and her attendant turned her to look into the reflecting glass. The dark grey of the cloak and fur seamlessly complemented her gown of lightest dove-grey, where silver embroidery at turns mimicked wolf fur and the leaves of the weirwood tree from her high collar down to the floor. Her hair was up, but in a soft, simple Northern style that framed her face: two small twists pulling the front back, with the rest of her hair loosely braided and tucked up out of the way.  

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Maerta snapped her fingers, quickly returning with Sansa’s circle-chain necklace. Instead of placing it around her neck, Maerta looped it like a belt around Sansa’s neat waistline. “There. Perfect.”

Sansa stared at her reflection, trying to ignore the nerves in her stomach, and allowed herself ten seconds, and ten seconds only, to dwell on her last wedding here at Winterfell – pale, nervous, wrapped in white furs and walking towards a life with a monster. She fingered the chain at her waist, and firmly told herself to neatly pack all of those feelings away. She was no longer that girl, alone and powerless, and the King was not Ramsay. Sansa inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, and nodded to Maerta. “I’m ready.”

Maerta nodded, and opened the door to her chambers, revealing Brynden standing in the hallway, ready to escort her to the godswood. His craggy face broke into a soft, fond smile. “Look at you, my girl. Oh, if your parents could see you.” He took her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “One last indulgence before you become my queen. Are you ready?” he asked, neatly tucking her hand into his arm.

Sansa nodded. “Yes, Uncle Brynden, I am.” He began guiding her down the hallway, and she smiled, teasing him gently. “You’ll still be my uncle when I am queen, you know.”

“Ah, but queens cannot be kissed on the forehead by their doting uncles, Sansa. It undermines their authority.” He pat her hand a little sadly.

“Perhaps not in the Great Hall. But I’ll grant you a royal dispensation to do so privately.” Sansa squeezed his hand affectionately and he squeezed back. She was quiet a moment as they walked the bridge to the Armoury and the godswood. “You _do_ approve of this match, don’t you, Uncle Brynden?”

“Aye, Sansa, I’m surprised to admit I do.” At her questioning glance, he continued. “Stannis Baratheon was always a hard man. Not a bad thing, especially in a soldier, but I also knew him to be both rigid and resentful, with a sense of justice I personally found extreme. A match with that man could have made you profoundly unhappy.”

Sansa swallowed. “But now?”

“Now?” Brynden smiled down at her. “In my time, I haven’t found that people change that much, truth be told. But the man I found you allied with seems a different version of the man I knew. I donna know if it was his wife who made him so miserable, or Dragonstone, or his brothers, or all three. But he seems… softer, more bendable – and he has proven himself to respect you beyond my wildest imaginings. The Stannis I knew would have taken one or both of your hands for your lies in the Vale, so he has found within himself mercy that no one knew he had. And he would never have made you co-regnant. This version will make a good king, I think.” He squeezed her hand again, this time with a rakish grin. “And as my queen, if he ever makes you unhappy, you can order me to clock him. You know I’ll do it.”

Sansa forced herself not to laugh, but she smiled nonetheless. She found her earlier nerves drifting into the cold night air the closer she got to the wood; yes, she was walking to another marriage, but this time, she had family and their blessings with her. She held that knowledge to her heart, and stepped towards Jon, waiting at the doors.

“Sansa, you look beautiful.” He kissed her cheek – he was not as tall as Brynden, after all. “Ready?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Stannis called on every ounce of his discipline not to fidget or adjust his damnable crown as the lords and ladies gathered in the dark between the bonfire piles, awaiting Sansa’s arrival. He stood in the center of the star in the godswood clearing with the septon, while Shireen stood close by, next to Davos. Her eyes were bright and cheerful, and when she saw him looking, she smiled at him. He allowed himself a small smile in return and nodded to her before resuming his stern, kingly demeanour.

Lady Olenna had flatly turned down standing for any time in the cold, so a chair had been brought out to the godswood for her, and she sat like she was holding court herself, wrapped in her furs. Stannis felt the woman studying him while he waited. He avoided her gaze and desperately tried to mask the nerves he felt.

The ensuing chaos from Cersei’s attack had kept him busy enough over the weeks leading to this night – and if he were to be honest with himself, he’d welcomed the distraction and the excuse to delegate all ceremonial planning to Davos. There was a small part of him that still could not believe the turn of his fortunes, that did not trust that his luck would hold, that was sure he would say or do _something_ that would dissuade Sansa Stark from becoming his queen if he spent too much time in her presence before the wedding. That part of him had no helpful distraction now, and only got louder the longer he waited. He was sure Olenna and her sharp hawk eyes saw right through him, and he scowled at the thought. Turning, he busied himself by looking to the weirwood tree towering over the clearing – a beautiful, ancient giant, glowing white in the dark with vibrant red leaves. A strange sense of calm flowed into Stannis the longer he studied it. He could see why the Starks came here for contemplation. The setting was very soothing.

He looked back as the clearing quieted. Bonfires were quietly lit, creating a glow of warm light around the clearing, and the septon made himself as tall as possible. Stannis followed suit, straightening to his full height, and searched the darkness for his new bride.

Jon appeared first, then a vivid glint of the top of Sansa’s head, hair catching the firelight. Stannis forced himself to swallow as she came fully into view, so tall and slim in her gown of soft grey that she seemed like some sort of spirit emerging from the darkness. She was flanked by her uncle on the other side, and the three approached the centre of the clearing together.

The septon cleared his threat and spoke into the silence. “Who comes before the gods on this night?”  
  
“Sansa of the House Stark comes here to be wed,” Jon said. “A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” 

Stannis, primed for his role in this Northern custom, was ready with his answer. “Stannis of House Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Who gives her?  
  
“Jon of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell.”

“Lady Sansa, will you take this man?” the septon inquired. 

“Yes,” Sansa replied, her gaze rising to meet her groom’s. “I will take this man.” 

Jon and Ser Brynden stepped back to melt into the onlookers as Sansa walked forward to join Stannis in front of the septon, who turned to Stannis.  “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Sansa shifted to turn her back to him, and – keeping his hand as steady as possible - he reached around her neck to gently unfasten the maiden cloak, embroidered with the face of a silver Stark direwolf, and replaced it with the one he held – a fall of heavy black wool, lined and collared with soft rich black fur, and emblazoned with a sigil of Sansa’s own creation. A variation of that which he had created for himself, hers featured the outline of a heart on fire, stitched in a shimmering gold thread - but instead of encircling a stag, the heart held the face of another direwolf, stitched in gold. A pair of antlers hovered above the wolf, separated by a crown. It was beautiful, and it had stunned him when Davos informed him Sansa had sewn it with her own hands.

He fastened the cloak around her neck, ignoring the soft feel of her jaw against his hands, and tentatively smoothed the fabric over her shoulders – mindful of their audience, he quickly dropped his hands and stepped away. Sansa turned back to him and the effect was a punch to the gut – the Baratheon black contrasted starkly against her fair skin and dress, and highlighted the thick black fringe around the blue of her eyes and the richness of her hair. She was simply exquisite. And now she was _his._ Stannis was suddenly desperately grateful that he had a moment to compose himself before he needed to speak, but could not tear his eyes away.

The septon gestured broadly to the gathered, taking his moment to engage in dramatics. “My _lords_ , my _ladies,_ we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness this union of husband and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” He reached out and loosely tied their wrists together with a ribbon of black and gold. “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

Stannis looked to their hands, than met Sansa’s eyes once again, and raised his voice with a firm, clear ring of authority. “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Sansa tilted her chin up, and held his gaze, and her voice rang across the gathered, matching him in tone. “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.” 

“Let it be known that Stannis of House Baratheon and Sansa of House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” With a dramatic flourish, he pulled the ribbon free. 

Stannis took Sansa’s hands in his, and frowned, very serious. “With this kiss,” he said, so quietly that even the septon could not hear him, “I pledge my love.” He leaned forward, and mindful of his audience, pressed only a brief kiss to her mouth. Sansa watched his lips as he pulled away, then looked up at him with a small smile. 

The septon waited a beat, allowing the audience their brief applause, before clapping his own hands. “My lords and ladies, here before you stands Stannis of House Baratheon, who came north to answer the call of the men at the Wall, and who liberated Winterfell from vile pretenders. Stannis of House Baratheon, do you pledge to these men to defend the North and its people from all those who would do it harm?”

His answer was firm. “Aye, I do.”  

“Stannis of House Baratheon, may the Father grant you the strength to seek justice and the wisdom to know it. May the Warrior grant you courage and protect you in these perilous times. May the Smith grant you the resilience to protect the realm, and to bear this heavy burden.” As Stannis already wore a crown, the septon awkwardly waved a hand over the red-gold flames in his belated blessing by the Faith. “Stannis of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Defender of the North and Protector of the Realm: do you accept the North’s gift of Sansa of House Stark? Do you accept her as your queen and equal, undoubted in stature, to serve alongside you, sharing in your great burden?”

“Aye,” Stannis cleared his throat. “I do.”

The septon reached to a table at his side, opening a small box to reveal Sansa’s crown, and holding it aloft for all to see. Much like the sigil on her cloak, it was a mix of Stark and Baratheon. The base was a braided twist of Northern iron, Baratheon gold, and the red-gold of his fire crown, wrapping towards the front, where etchings made the braid begin to resemble wolf fur. At the front, the fur melted into the face of an iron wolf, the snout dipping to a point at her forehead. Rising from either side of the wolf’s head from the band grew two red-gold branches, one twisting behind the other so they then curved towards the other to reach for a single point above the wolf’s face – the immediate effect was one of very stylized antlers, but the glint of red also hinted at flames. 

“Sansa of Houses Stark and Baratheon, beloved daughter of the North. May the Mother grant you the compassion to be merciful to your people. May the Maiden grant you the courage to protect the innocent. May the Crone, she that knows the fate of all men, show you the path you must walk with your king, to guide you through the dark places that lie ahead.” He paused, clearly uncomfortable, rushing the next line. “ _For-the-night-is-dark-and-full-of-terrors.”_

Relieved to have been able to utter the words, the septon indicated that Sansa should turn and face her people. He gently placed the crown on her head. “Your Grace, my lords, my ladies.  In the light of the Seven, I present to you Sansa of Houses Stark and Baratheon, First of Her Name, the Red Wolf, Jewel of the North, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. _Long may she reign!”_

 _“The Red Wolf!”_ the men of the North responded, raising their swords. _“Long may she reign!”_ Jon, Ser Brynden and Shireen joined in the shouts, while Davos caught Stannis’ eye and nodded encouragingly.

Stannis braced himself for the coming indignity – this was the one part of the ceremony he’d balked at, to the point of inquiring with a number of the Northern household staff to ensure Davos was not playing some kind of joke on him. Gods damn the Northmen and their romanticism. But he turned to his bride, his queen, the perfect picture of her in his cloak and her crown… and swept her off her feet, carrying her to the feast awaiting them inside the castle.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I loved Sansa’s hair being loose in her canon coronation (very QE1), but Sansa is rocking Catelyn-y hair here: simple and queenly and suitable for both framing a crown/easily allowing a change of cloaks: 
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/9383TkG)  
>   
> \- Sansa’s gown is very similar to her [coronation gown](https://www.insider.com/game-of-thrones-sansa-queen-costume-symbolism-photos-2019-5), only a much lighter grey (why was her canon gown blue-grey? anyone?) and no metal bodice (the smithy was too busy with her crown and there was hardly time or need for that kind of handiwork). Her “needle” necklace is acting as a belt accent. Sansa’s crown is a hybrid mix between her canon crown (iron, wolf-y) and Cersei’s Lannister crown (i.e. braided metal, front-facing lion), with some twisty fire-antlers.


	28. Pep Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the wedding feast, Stannis gets talked out of his second anxiety spiral of the day.

“It’s very good of you to indulge the North like this, Your Grace,” Sansa murmured. Her arms rested gently around her king’s neck, as he seemed perfectly comfortable handling her weight without pressure being taken off his arms. She did faintly recall the occasion when Stannis had carried her into her tent upon arrival at camp, but she’d been so exhausted she’d practically been asleep for the experience. Now, she felt a little overwhelmed by his closeness, the firm, solid feel of his chest, and how he smelled… a heady mix of smoke and leather and lemon.

He cut his eyes to the side, doing his best to maintain his dignity. “Davos made it quite clear that if we meant to subject the Northern lords to the droning of a septon, I was expected to make it worth their while,” Stannis muttered in return. “Though he could have been less _gleeful_ about it.” He looked away, clearing his throat. “I have suffered duties more tedious than this.” Sansa hid the quirk of her smile in the fur of his collar, and allowed herself to inhale deeply and enjoy the ride.

Though she had known how the ceremony would go line-by-line, Stannis had still managed to surprise her with his quiet, personal pledge. She vividly recalled Joffrey’s loud, obnoxious delivery of the same line, and the theatrical kiss with Margaery that had followed; a grotesque farce for anyone who knew the boy to be incapable of loving anyone but himself.  Sansa did not know exactly what “love” meant to a man as reserved as Stannis – protection, respect, affection? – but she knew that he did _mean_ it. The swell of warmth she’d felt flow from the heart tree had only confirmed it for her.

Reaching the Great Hall, he set her down with ease in front of the high table, keeping one hand on her back until she was stable.  His gaze rested on her crown. “It suits,” was all he said, before he was forced to shift his attention to the arriving guests.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Stannis had moderately dreaded the reception line and feast, but was pleased to find it an ordeal less onerous than expected. It became immediately obvious to him that this marriage had affected how people saw and reacted to _him,_ personally. Selyse, a wife chosen solely for him to bolster his brother’s alliances with the Reach, was in many ways like him – severe in manner, charmless - and she had amplified and brought out the worst in him. Together in public, they had projected a cold, unyielding, and undeniably unlikeable front. Political alliances aside, his new wife – his _queen_ \- was beautiful, gracious, and kind. Her softness provided a contrast to his strength, a balance that he could _feel_ in the way people approached and spoke to him. He was still every bit himself, stern and introverted, but the reflection of Sansa’s charisma made his austere manner more appealing, transforming it into the kind of authority that reassured others and generated their respect, rather than repelling them. He felt himself relaxing as they made their way through the long line of vassals pledging their allegiance, the freshly-crowned Sansa handing most of the interaction and nodding in welcome to each as they knelt in turn. It was the least tedious social obligation he’d had in quite some time.

He marveled once again at his change of circumstance.

There were a couple of sour notes, naturally, such as Olenna Tyrell (maddeningly smug and imperious, though seemingly pleased for Sansa) and Lord Baelish greeted them such an oily manner that Stannis was certain he’d left some kind of trail behind him. He hadn’t noticed him during the ceremony, but of course Baelish’s natural inclination was to melt into shadow.

“Your Graces,” he bowed. “A _wonderful_ ceremony, and I congratulate you on this match. This auspicious union of stag and wolf is sure to be acclaimed across the realm in these troubling times.” 

Sansa didn’t blink nor miss a beat. “Thank you, Lord Baelish. Your approval of my marriage will always mean a great deal to me.”

Baelish’s unctuous demeanour faltered visibly as her tone sliced with the delicacy of a stiletto blade, but he recovered, smiling and dipping away. 

Thankfully, Tormund Giantsbane had returned for the occasion, and immediately stepped forward to cheerfully break decorum, greeting them loudly and landing a smacking kiss on his wife’s cheek. He wagged his brows and dropped his voice conspiratorally. “Now, tell me, Sansa: which of us was right, and which of us was wrong?” Curiously, Sansa blushed as he winked broadly and clapped Stannis on the shoulder before jovially calling out to the room. “This is a celebration, yes? Where is the ale?”

The mood was, indeed, more jubilant than Stannis had expected it to be, merry even, before the food was served and the wine poured. He sat next to Sansa at the high table, observing the room. “You and Davos did well, my queen,” he said quietly, leaning closer to her.

“Thank you… my king.” She smiled, apparently pleased with his praise, but soon frowned as she noticed his untouched meal. “Is the food not to your liking?”  

“I ate in the kitchens before the wedding,” he replied briefly, surveying the room, but felt her questioning look and met her eyes. He dropped his voice to explain. “The company is suspect, and too many men have died at dinner tables and weddings of late.” Sansa’s eyes widened in alarm at him and her own meal, and he shook his head before she could speak, and continued quietly. “It’s mere precaution, Sansa. Do not concern yourself; you are an unlikely target, at least here.”

“I suppose it is wise, for now.” Sansa cast her eyes around the room at the merrymaking. Littlefinger kept to the back corner, speaking with Manderly and pretending he wasn’t watching them. “Perhaps we should find someone to test the food.”

“If we can find someone trained and suitable, but I can take precautions until the threat is diminished. And perhaps whomever eliminated the Freys is not an enemy at all, but an unknown ally.” He watched Baelish move around the room. “House Frey is no more.  Cersei Lannister herself set the court vipers on fire, and sent the Queen of Thorns running to me to negotiate for grain. It occurs to me that I made several commitments to you for this match, Sansa, but others are determined to best me in fulfilling them.”

Sansa considered this. “It would seem so,” she agreed, “But I am pleased nonetheless.” She placed a tentative hand on his. “It was most important that you offered; I know you would have followed through.”

Stannis felt himself flush and nodded jerkily, reaching for his water glass. “May I inquire as to what the wildling meant when he spoke to you?”  He was surprised, and a little gratified, when Sansa’s cheeks again tinged pink. 

“He…” she paused. “On our tour of the north, Tormund made a few bold declarations that - at the time – I thought were outlandish jokes to amuse me. Some have… come to pass.”

“Oh?” Stannis found himself morbidly curious.

“Perhaps I will tell you later, my king.” She sent him a sidelong glance that made him wish he was partaking of his meal, for sudden want of something to preoccupy his hands. 

*~*~*~*

 “Wishing you’d worked harder to maintain your courtly dancing skills, Your Grace?” Davos cheerfully plopped himself next to Stannis to watch the swirl on the floor. The evening had given way to dancing, though a few of the younger guests, and the older ones, chose to sit back and watch. Blackfish and Lady Olenna in particular seemed to be delighting themselves trading barbs over their drinks.

“I’m content to watch the festivities from here, Ser Davos,” Stannis replied, not entirely honestly. Stannis had staunchly refused to dance after conceding to that excessively romantic northern tradition, and Jon and Sansa had opened the dancing as Queen and Lord of Winterfell; she had since found herself in no shortage of partners. He didn’t begrudge either his queen nor his guests the occasion, but the longer he sat without the pleasure of her company, the more time he had to fixate and brood over his nerves and his growing feeling of trepidation about final chapter of the evening.

“Aye, I can see the view is quite fetching.” Amiably in his cups, Davos topped up Stannis’ glass with the dedicated flask of water he’d had prepared for the day. “Are you sure you don’t want to celebrate with something stronger, Your Grace? 'Tis a happy occasion, and the Blackfish is passing around some fine spirits indeed.”

“No, thank you.”

“Well then.” Davos sat back, making himself comfortable. “I imagine a second wedding is wonderfully less nerve-wracking than one’s first, eh milord?” he remarked, idly making conversation as he fondly watched Shireen skip through the dancing circle with her partner, a Mormont cousin who had taken a liking to her.

“Hardly.”

The terse note in his voice suddenly alerted Davos to his mood. “Your Grace?” Stannis didn’t respond, and Davos noted the king’s fingers tapping steadily on his thigh, and a clenched jaw that meant Stannis was doing his best not to grind his teeth.  “You’ve more… experience this time around than your first wedding night, no? That’s something?”

“Not when both parties had wretched prior marriages, Davos.” The king’s face maintained his aloof façade as he observed the crowd, but the tapping continued.

“Ah, well.” Davos seemed flummoxed, starting tentatively. “If you’ll please excuse my impertinence, Your Grace, I thought…  you and the red woman… that is … well, Melisandre seemed quite satisfied, Your Grace.”

Stannis grimaced. He and Melisandre had, to put it crudely, fucked their way through most of the rooms at Dragonstone, and hadn’t stopped when they’d set out across the realm. The red woman had been uninhibited, demanding, _wanton_ , and once he’d detached himself from the guilt of betraying his marriage vows, he’d enjoyed the most satisfying, athletic sex of his life. But he couldn’t imagine doing any of that with _Sansa_ , so he replied stiffly. “The queen’s last marriage was already worse than mine, Davos, and I would hardly expect a lady to endure the treatment that the witch enjoyed.”

Sobering quickly, Davos opened his mouth a couple of times, as if unsure where to begin to respond. “The queen’s past treatment is something to be aware of, to be sure. A maid being so ill used in her first marriage bed does complicate things. Warped expectations, involuntary reactions.” Stannis did not respond, simply nodding in tense agreement. Sensing the king wanted advice but was uncomfortable asking for it, Davos was quiet a moment before continuing. “I would imagine the best course of action would not be unlike treating any wounded or mistreated animal – soothing any distress, building trust, avoiding sudden movements. Gentle hands and voice. At least to start.”

Stannis nodded slowly, as always exceedingly grateful for Davos’ perspective and instincts. He had experience tending to wounded creatures; this was a helpful way to think about it. 

“As to your second point, well …” Davos coughed, uncomfortable. “I know your fancy court arrangements tend to be of a different breed from Fleabottom marriages, but are you willing to listen to the advice of a happily married man of many years, Your Grace?”

Stannis cut his eyes to the side and jerked his head minutely. It couldn’t hurt. 

“What the Queen might enjoy is up to you and her to discover. _Together_.”

Stannis scowled. “And how do we do that, Ser Davos?”

Davos’ response was simultaneously patient, amused and somewhat exasperated. “Well, as the queen is _not_ in fact an animal, you have the opportunity to communicate with her, Your Grace. _Ask_ her if she likes what you’re doing, if she feels adequately prepared, _listen_ to what she responds to.”

Unconvinced, Stannis felt himself flush, embarrassed about the entire conversation. “That feels… improper.” 

Davos clapped him on the shoulder. “Trust me. And don’t run away to your own chambers afterwards.”

“No?” Stannis frowned. Selyse had wanted to be left alone immediately, he was quite sure of that. _Hadn’t she?_

“ _No._ At least ask her if she wants you to leave, but don’t make assumptions. Brides feel vulnerable and insecure and want a bit of holding. At least, that’s what Marya told Dale.”

Stannis tapped the table. “… Did you hold Marya afterwards?”

Davos chuckled, suddenly wistful. “Gods, yes. Didn’t leave the bed for days.” 

Still unconvinced, Stannis pressed. “And she _enjoyed_ your attentions.”

“ _Yes,_ Your Grace.”

Stannis tried not to scowl as he recapped his friend’s advice. Gentle hands. No sudden movements. Listening. _Holding._ As a strategy it seemed… achievable. Perhaps the evening would not be a total disaster.

He was brought back to himself as his bride was returned to him, escorted by her uncle, rather pink in the cheeks. Sansa gratefully accepted his offer of her drink with a smile, reaching a hand up to adjust her crown. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He cleared his throat. “Are you having a tolerable time, my - ”

“This wedding needs a BEDDING!” came a sudden shout from the crowd – Justin Massey, slurring his words together, and all at once there was a rousing beat was pounded onto the tables. _“To bed! To bed! To bed!”_    

Sansa froze, all the fresh colour draining from her cheeks, and Stannis was up and out of his chair before he realized what he meant to do.

“There will be no bedding,” he declared, in a tone that brooked no argument, flatly ignoring the disappointed noises made by drunken louts. “None shall lay a hand on the Queen. Enjoy your spirits and find amusement elsewhere.” He offered his arm to Sansa, and she rose, a little unsteady, to take it. “Your lady’s maid can help you disrobe, Sansa,” he muttered to her. “I will join you in your chambers when you are ready.” 

Sansa smiled up at him faintly, and brought her other hand up to clasp his forearm in silent thanks. After a moment’s hesitation, he brought his hand over hers and squeezed, returning her touch for the first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes, Stannis is highly repressed and working through a medieval madonna/whore complex, but don’t worry, he’ll come around.
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> **Belated edit: Stannis' emotional journey in this conversation can pretty much be enjoyed[here](https://xionthelostpuppet.tumblr.com/post/184860855304). ** Stannis, you broody lil grump. <3
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> Shout out to @Sarah_Black’s seminal fic Lady of Storm’s End for Davos’ “bit of holding” phrasing, which is such a perfectly Davos thing to say that it wouldn’t leave my head trying to write this.
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> Oh god, now I have to write p0rn. 


	29. Tolerable Attentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis joins Sansa in her chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I can post the picture that inspired this scene/this entire fic, via [bronzerook](https://bronzerook.tumblr.com/post/152548016881/does-anyone-ship-these-two-anymore) on tumblr. 
> 
> God, their kids are going to have such great bone structure.

Sansa anxiously adjusted her robe – new, a thick black velvet edged in gold – and tried to steady her breathing as she waited for Stannis to come to her. Pacing a bit in front of the fireplace, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflecting glass and paused, twisting her fingers together a bit. Maerta had unpinned most of her hair, but left her crown on her brow when she’d helped remove her wedding attire, but Sansa debated taking it off before the king arrived. Would it send the wrong signal, would he think it ostentatious? Should she look like his queen when Stannis arrived, or his wife?

Her stomach jangled with anticipatory nerves, and Sansa tried to tamp them down. Rationally, she knew that the king would not hurt her, not deliberately.  But the small, wounded parts of her psyche, the ones just beginning to heal, had begun to scream at her to run – or fight - as soon as she’d entered her bedchamber. Those parts of her wanted to keep her crown on as long as possible, to remind him – to remind herself – that she was not vulnerable, not defenseless. But that need in and of itself felt like a shameful weakness, unbefitting a crown.  

Before she could make a decision either way, there was a soft knock at her door. Bracing herself, she turned to face it.  “Come in,” she called.

The king entered quietly, and after hesitating briefly at first sight of her, shut the door behind him. “My queen.”

She took a moment to swallow around the lump in her throat. “My king.” He, too, was wrapped in black robes, his with a high collar and gold embroidery, and simply seeing him out of his customary leather and armor sent a small jolt through her. As much as she felt she knew and respected him by now, they were in uncharted waters together, and she felt another wave of nervous tension sweep through her.

But the king lingered by the door, studying her quietly, before turning to walk to a side table supplied with a pitcher of water. He poured himself a glass, and took a sip. Keeping some distance between them, he cleared his throat before speaking again and meeting her eyes, his voice pitched low. “I understand you must feel some apprehension about what we must do. It is our duty to consummate this marriage, and we cannot fail to do so. But I hope you understand that I am not a cruel man, and I wish you no harm.”

Sansa felt herself relax a degree, though her fingers continued to twist uncertainly at her waist. “I do know that, Your Grace.”

He looked down into his glass, idly sent the liquid into a swirl. “When we are alone, I think it would not be improper to call each other by our familiar names. Is there anything I can do to put you at ease, Sansa?” His raised his gaze to hold hers from across the room, and Sansa felt a new kind of nervous flutter in her stomach.

“I – I don’t know. Perhaps –” Sansa hesitated, feeling foolish, but he waited, patient. “You are my third husband, Your Gra – Stannis _._ And yet… I have never been kissed, not really.”  She flushed, embarrassed, and darted her eyes to the ground. “Perhaps we could start there.”

The silence stretched out between them and she tentatively looked back up to a somewhat stunned look on the king’s face. Deliberately, he set his glass down, and slowly, wordlessly, he crossed the room to where she was standing. He came close, eyes first resting on her mouth, and then rising to her crown. Sansa felt a little dizzy as he reached up – he was so very _close_ \- but gently, he lifted the circlet from her brow, placing it carefully on the mantle. Her breath caught in her chest as Stannis then smoothed back her hair from her face, carding one hand through the length of it, watching the strands pull through his fingers in the firelight. His other hand came up to repeat the movement, and Sansa’s eyes fluttered closed at the lovely, soothing sensation, opening them again when she felt the graze of his thumb across her jaw, the soft stroke of his fingers down her neck.  His gaze was very intent, very serious, as she forced herself to meet his deep blue eyes.

“You will tell me if I do anything that alarms you.” It was a command, pitched low and soft, and the answering swoop in her stomach rendered her without speech - it was all she could do to nod her assent in return. Satisfied, Stannis stroked the soft skin of her cheek before cradling her face, and his eyes dropped to her mouth, and then just like that – she was being kissed, a hot, firm pressure that she felt echo to her toes. She swayed forward and Stannis’ arm wrapped around her waist, bringing her close against him as her mouth fell open in response to the press of his mouth – and he slid his tongue against hers, a soft incursion that thrilled her.

Dizzied by the sensations and the assault of heat, she ran her hands up his arms – the feel of hard muscle under soft velvet delightfully solid and reassuring – and instinctually secured herself to him by wrapping her arms around his neck. She reveled in the feel of Stannis’ hands running over her back, feeling not unlike a pleased cat happily accepting a pet, and she started to became short of breath in the most delightful way as the king’s kisses became hungrier and his breath harsher, curling his tongue against hers.

 _Kissing was_ wonderful _,_ she thought, letting out a soft gasp of pleasure. 

Stannis groaned and pushed the collar of her robe aside to press his mouth to her nape, and an unexpected rush of hot shocks down her body from the delightful scrape of his teeth and facial hair on her sensitive neck received an echoing pulse from between her legs, weakening her knees. He tightened his hold with a strong forearm around her waist, and brought his mouth to her ear. “Are you amenable to moving to the bed, Sansa?” he muttered, low and rough, and when she nodded and whispered her assent, she found herself once again swept up, gathered in the strong brace of his arms for the few paces it took to reach the mattress. 

Stannis set her down in the center of the bed on the soft furs, keeping his eyes on hers as he stood and used deliberate movements to remove his robe, neatly folding the black velvet and setting it aside. Underneath, the hard musculature of his chest and shoulders gave way to lean hips covered in soft breeches, a light thatch of hair narrowing to a point on his stomach, and Sansa swallowed – there was very little by way of extraneous flesh and the king’s shape was very pleasing to the eye, if her stomach clenched at the sight of the sizable bulge in his smallclothes.

As if sensing a return of nerves, the king climbed into the bed with some caution, settling beside her, and she was grateful when he began to kiss her again - first softly running his hands over the velvet she wore – stroking down her arms, down her back, over her hips - and then he sensed her begin to relax, slipping one inside her robe. She keened against the texture of his large, calloused hand as it cupped her breast, and Sansa began to feel emotionally overwhelmed. It had been _so long_ since she’d been touched or held without the intent of cruelty or violence, and she reveled in Stannis’ careful attentions - she had a craving for _more_. Her body felt enflamed but she needed to feel the warmth of his chest against hers, and she began to writhe, trying to shed her robe, and in the process, her core rubbed against his thigh and the relief of the growing tension there was so great she immediately did it again. 

Stannis let out a low moan at her movements and assisted her in opening and discarding her robe, and she was gratified by the rush of cooler air, followed by the delightfully light but rough caresses of his hands running up her body to cup her breasts. He nuzzled again at her neck before moving down to mouth kisses across her breasts and she luxuriated in running her own hands up his arms, his shoulders, his back. He was so _strong_ , but she did not feel threatened by it in the least. His hands were sturdy and rough, but skimmed her body as if she were glass – he’d held her feet in those hands and cared for her when she was but a stranger to him, and Stannis had just vowed before the heart tree to protect her as his wife. He was not a man to shirk or make a mockery of his vows, and his powerful frame made her feel secure, and safe.

Sansa sought out his mouth again, desperate for more kissing, to press the length of herself against him, squirming again to find pressure somewhere to relieve the incessant need between her legs.  At her persistent rubbing against him, Stannis groaned and gripped her hips, stilling her, though he continued to leave kisses on her mouth, her neck, her breasts. Sansa was confused, and only more so when he began moving down her body to her navel. “Your- Your Grace?” she gasped when he dipped so low and began to lap at her most private place. He paused his movements to look at her with that intense focus he had.

“Sansa? Did I hurt you?” 

“N-n-no, I just…” She stuttered, dazed and insecure. “This is - I don’t know -  what is it I’m to do?”  She hardly recognized her voice, breathy and uncertain.

“This is a kiss that prepares you for me.” His voice was gruff and gravelly, and sent a small thrill through her. ”Shall I continue?” 

“I – yes,” she settled, though she felt very self-conscious, and missed the weight and warmth of him.

At first, the movements of his tongue felt strange, and foreign, but then he hit a sensitive place in _just_ the right way, and she jolted, gripping the bed covers. “Oh!” Stannis, taking that cue, began to attack that spot, relentless, holding her hips in place. She felt herself grow even more hot and wet, while the frissons within her grew to a crescendo and she felt a desperate need to buck her hips against him, needing _more_. “Stannis!” He ruthlessly held her still, moving over the sensitive nub and _sucking,_ and she fell over the cliff, a hard, rippling shudder coursing through her in a sudden wave of pleasure. 

Before she could catch her breath, he was back, running his hands and mouth over her and keeping her dazed and dizzy with an onslaught of sensation. His hands were in her hair, on her breast, his lips on hers, on her neck, on her breast. And then, as Stannis kissed her deeply, she felt a finger slide into her slick entrance, then two, and she reflexively responded, pressing against his palm when he stroked a sensitive spot. _Oh._ He moved his fingers again and she bucked, gasping.  “I think you’re prepared, Sansa,” he groaned into her ear, and before she knew what was happening, he rolled to line up his hard, blunt cock to her entrance – when had he removed his breeches? – and thrust forward in one powerful, insistent stroke, sinking deep, and she cried out, arching her back from the shock.

Stannis froze, holding himself above her and asked in a strained voice, “Are you alright, Sansa?” 

She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t a maid, and she’d been wet – _so_ wet – but taken by surprise, and Stannis felt… big – _very_ big, far bigger than Ramsey had been. “I – I don’t know.” She moved, trying to get comfortable, and Stannis groaned.  

She looked up into his face, which appeared deeply pained. “Are _you_ OK, Your Grace?” 

“Yes, I’m fine.” He sounded curt, and raspy, like he was having trouble breathing, but held himself very still, deep blue eyes pinning her in place. “Is there something wrong, are you hurt?”

Sansa felt herself stretching and adjusting – and as the shock faded she began to feel beautifully _full_. “I think I’m alright, I think…” She flushed, the sensitive spot he’d massaged with his fingers roused and fluttered over his cock. “I think you’re just much larger than Ramsey, and it took some getting used to.”  

He groaned at her words and his hips flexed. _“Oh_.” Sparks shivered, and she felt a fresh wave of wetness flood her. “That was pleasing, Your Grace.”

Stannis kept his eyes intently on hers, and pulled back to move harder, more deliberately. “ _OH!_ ” she cried out, closing her eyes. “Yes, more, _please_.” 

“As you wish, my lady,” he choked out, and began to move in steady strokes, watching her at first and then giving up, closing his eyes, dropping his head to kiss desperately at her shoulder, her breasts, as he worked in and out of her body.

It all felt _so delicious_ and Sansa wondered how an act she’d dreaded with another could feel so _good_. She was unspeakably warm and stimulated and _full_ and she began to experiment, pushing up her hips to meet his, then tilting her pelvis to allow him deeper.  “Fuck, Sansa, _fuck,”_  the king groaned in response, picking up the pace and burying his face in her hair, and she thrilled at both at the deep, satisfying thrusts and the king’s notorious composure unravelling at something _she_ had done.

Encouraged, she ran her fingers up his arms, through his hair, and then down his back, marveling at the feel of the flex of muscle, finally resting at his hips encouraging him to move faster, harder.  Stannis let out a guttural moan at the grip of her hands and suddenly her legs were over his shoulders, her hands pinned above her head, and he was _pounding_ into her, grunting into her ear, and she _bounced_ from the vigor of it, abruptly peaking a second time  - she arched and cried out incoherently in surprise, feeling herself pulse and ripple around Stannis’ hard length. He let out a painful-sounding moan, and his hands moved to grip her hips, thrusting jerkily and erratically until his back snapped straight with a long groan and through the haze of her own peak, she felt the warm flood of his release rush through her.  

The king collapsed on her, gasping heavily for breath, and instinctively she reached up to run soothing hands up and down his back, basking in both the comforting weight of his body and the close smell of him – leather and lemon and a not-unpleasant faint musk of sweat – and she focused on normalizing her own breathing as well. She felt warm and languid and content as they lay there, and when he finally shifted to move off of her, she unconsciously followed, moving under his arm to curl into his side, head on his chest. After a beat, she felt one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close, and his other hand reached up to brush her hair back from her face. He began to gently pull his fingers through her hair and down her back in a comforting rhythm, and she nearly started to purr.  

At the tentative brush of his thumb over her cheek, she and looked up to find him looking intently at her face, tracing her jaw with his fingers.   “I apologize, Sansa,” His voice faltered, a low rumble under her ear. “I meant to –“ He cleared his throat. “Did you find it… tolerable?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, blinking up at him with a shy smile. “Very.” Stannis visibly relaxed, and Sansa thought she saw a smile pull at his lips. The effect softened him so much, she felt a curious need to plant another kiss on his stunned lips before sleepily settling back onto his chest.  She felt his arms tighten around her, and soon fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @leidibrf [informed me](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/228847255) that it's practically canon that Baratheons all have big dicks, and who am I to argue with canon? 
> 
> #BaratheonDickEnergy
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> hope you liked it.


	30. A Bit of Holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis tries to make sense of himself, his life, his choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, just fyi we’ve entered a “shipper-indulgence” phase of this story before we get back to things like “plot”
> 
> (you guys were all so patient for the last six months/30-odd chapters, here, have some more p0rn.)

_A fool. Tyrion Lannister was a fool._ But then again, so was he.

Stannis was very grateful to Davos for the advice about _holding_ , for it had briefly felt very alien to him when Sansa had cuddled up against him, and he might have reacted clumsily without it – and he would not have wanted to upset her after his rough treatment. But he was warming to _holding_ , he supposed. He would have thought this sort of thing oppressively cloying or sentimental, but the soft press of a sleeping Sansa against him was undeniably agreeable.

As he lay there with Sansa sprawled across his chest, he chased off the heavy pull of sleep with guilt, berating himself for his failures. He’d been very determined, when approaching Sansa’s chambers, to keep to the outlined plan, reasonably sure that his iron discipline would temper any base instincts _…_ but he was immediately thrown when he’d entered to find Sansa standing by the fire, radiant from head to toe in its light. He thought he’d become somewhat accustomed to her beauty, but seeing her slim figure wrapped in Baratheon black velvet, stark against her pale skin and her fiery hair now tumbling around her shoulders – she’d looked a goddess, the crown gracing her brow looking entirely different on his queen in the intimacy of the dark, quiet room.

He’d tried to cling to his strategy, intending to be as gentle and patient as possible – but she had _responded_ to him so unexpectedly, doggedly shredding his restraint with every breathy moan and touch and press of her body until he’d felt he was trying to maintain his footing on a crumbling pillar of sand.

He hadn’t believed Davos, not really, when he’d insisted his wife enjoyed his attentions. At least, Stannis didn’t think it would apply very much for _him_ , that perhaps that the love matches that smallfolk engaged in were simply of a different type of marriage than that which lords and ladies of the realm were accustomed. His only goal – well, aside from consummation - had simply been to avoid retraumatizing his new wife; for example, he had little expectation that either of them would want to spend _days_ in their marriage bed. Such sentiment sounded preposterous when considering his first marriage; even after lying with Melisandre, Stannis had never felt the urge to _idle_ with her. Maybe he fell asleep in her bed, but getting up in the morning was no particular chore; while Melisandre had been very vocal during their coupling, she was not affectionate, nor was she inclined to _cuddle._

His experience with Sansa, on the other hand, had been a revelation. She was not cold and unpleasant, nor was she sultry and seductive. She had been warm, receptive, even enthusiastic, and though not strictly a maid, _inexperienced_ in ways that honestly flummoxed him. A rare beauty such as she, _unkissed?_ In his day, handsome knights had often dabbled in stealing embraces from the prettiest maidens at court - let alone her _two_ past husbands and Lord Baelish’s decidedly corrupt interest in her. Perhaps the Lannister betrothal - and then disfavour - had discouraged such court dalliances while she was in King’s Landing, but it still boggled the mind, especially considering the restraint he would never have imagined neither the imp or Littlefinger to possess. (Ramsey, of course, had been deranged.)

But Sansa, who would have every right to shrink from his touches, instead leaned into them; could have recoiled from his kisses, but had melted into him. Her responses had steadily undone him, and he’d felt his control slipping with every sigh, every touch of her hands or response from her body. When she’d undulated her hips against him (not suggestively, as Melisandre had, but innocently) his eyes had rolled back into his head, and he’d had to desperately withdraw to perform the Lord’s Kiss in an attempt to compose himself - but it only delayed the inevitable. The last tether on his control began to fray when she’d responded eagerly to his hand and he’d greedily, foolishly rushed to enter her – of course, he’d been immediately punished by the torture of having to hold back and remain still while her unbelievably slick, _blissfully_ snug sheath clenched around him. But it had truly started to unravel, a thin cord snapping thread by thread, when she’d started to move with him, and finally shattered altogether when she’d clutched at his hips. Stannis flushed in shame remembering how ruthlessly, how mindlessly he’d attacked her depths in a desperate pursuit of release.

He supposed, for Sansa’s sake, he owed R’hllor and Melisandre some thanks for initiating him to the Lord’s Kiss, though he also blamed them for unearthing these base appetites to begin with. And thank _all_ the gods he hadn’t partaken in the spirits when Davos offered, he thought, rubbing his face. What impulses would he have indulged in if his inhibitions were compromised?  

His only consolation in his total dereliction of discipline was his distinct memory of her contracting around him, gripping his cock like a vise, before he’d nearly blacked out from the sheer power of his climax. He’d come to his senses to find her sweetly caressing his back, and when he’d tried to relieve her of the burden of his weight, she’d simply moved with him, neatly tucking herself under his arm. Bafflingly, she hadn’t appeared angry or hurt or repulsed in the least. Had Ramsay treated her so violently he had still seemed gentle in comparison? Or was Davos more right then he’d previously believed?

_“What the Queen might enjoy is up to you and her to discover. Together.”_

_“Did you find it… tolerable?”_

_“Oh, yes. Very.”_

Whatever the case, it seemed he was lucky enough that he hadn’t irrevocably damaged Sansa, or their relations. It had simply been months since he’d lain with Melisandre, he decided, and he would just have to do better going forward. He maneuvered his limbs to pull some furs over their twist of bodies without disturbing her sleep, and finally allowed himself to drift into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

  
~ * ~ * ~

Stannis’ firm resolution was immediately tested in the morning.

Sometime through the night, they had resettled so that he was wrapped protectively around Sansa - his face in her neck, and her backside pressed up against him in a most agreeable fashion. In the dozy haze of his stirring, Stannis was somewhat alarmed to find himself in a position that could only be described as _snuggling_ , but he also abruptly understood Davos’ talk about being reluctant to leave his marriage bed. It was… quite pleasant. Before she awoke, he indulged himself by breathing in the scent of her hair, and trailing his free hand up the curve of her lean silhouette before resettling his arm around her waist and drawing her closer. Quite pleasant indeed.

All too soon, he felt Sansa stir. “Mmm. Good morning,” she murmured, sleepy and maybe a little shy, stretching within the confines of his embrace.

His already semi-hard cock instantly stiffened in a tide of lust, pushing against her thighs, and Stannis suffered a momentary - but blindingly vivid - vision of rolling his wife onto her knees and taking her mercilessly, bracing her against the headboard as he gripped her hips and rutted himself to sheer, sweaty bliss.

 _Gods,_ he swore to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He _was_ broken.

He was grateful that she was not in a position where she could see his immense struggle to compose himself. _I am_ not _a godsdamned_ animal _, damnit._ Stannis forced air into his lungs, tilted his pelvis away from her, and tried to clear the huskiness out of his voice before responding. “Good morning, Sansa.” Thinking to return the soft peck she’d gifted him before sleep, he brushed her hair aside and tentatively placed a light kiss to her nape. 

Sansa made a happy little sound and scooched back against him, and his length eagerly poked between her thighs - apparently thinking for itself now, needing little encouragement, and desperately seeking warmth and friction. Sansa did not protest, only shifted her thighs, and he cautiously took that as encouragement to reach for a soft handful of breast from the arm wrapped under and around her shoulders. He was rewarded by her low purr of approval, and the pebbling of her nipple in his palm.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, sweetly, while rolling her hips in a way that felt like a clear, purposeful effort to drive him _mad_.

He closed his eyes and counted to three. “Yes. Did you?”

“Mmm, yes, I was much warmer than I have been.”  She arched a little, pushing both into the hand on her breast and against him behind her. “And waking up like this is… pleasing.”

Stannis managed to repress another groan, but his hips rocked against her instinctively. “Is it?”

“ _Mmmhmm_.”

Part of Stannis’ mind remained baffled at how he’d ended up here, in a cozy bedchamber at Winterfell, enjoying a marriage bed with a beautiful, affectionate young wife who appeared to welcome his attentions. His unhappy life at Dragonstone seemed both like yesterday, and _lifetimes_ away. It was surreal.

A greater part of him, however, keenly wished to explore. He trailed his free hand back up her side and swept her hair away, wishing to stroke her back, but paused when his fingers brushed over unexpectedly rough texture. He looked closer in the dim lighting, and made out a network of thin red lines scoring Sansa’s back. They looked to be healing, to his eye, but once must have been very angry. Berda’s voice echoed in his ears. _Ole scars, new bruises, new … cuts._ He frowned deeply.  “Sansa, do these hurt?” 

He immediately regretted asking when he felt her tense against him. “Not really, Your Grace. Are they –“ She stopped. “Are they off-putting?”

“No.” He was a man of war who’d seen far worse, though few scars elicited this kind of cold, hard fury.  “I only wished to ensure I didn’t aggravate them.” He smoothed his palm over the worst of the marks, wishing he could erase them for her, and felt her start to relax. “These should fade well, if you’re concerned. Your skin is so fair; they’ll blend away in time.” He cleared his throat, lightly tracing his fingers down her back. “If they’re a bother to you, my apothecary may have some healing oils from Essos, procured for Shireen, that might help speed the process. I can inquire.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said softly. 

“Sansa…” He nosed her ear, stroked her shoulder, and pitched his voice low, profoundly hoping he could re-establish the warm, amorous mood he’d disturbed with his clumsy inquiry. His cock certainly didn’t care about the scars, and it twitched insistently at him, deeply annoyed at his blunder. “I realize it’s a habit hard to break… but I would prefer it if you called me Stannis, when we’re alone.”

He saw her smile to herself, and was gratified to feel her burrow back into his embrace. “As you wish, Stannis.”

Stannis gently squeezed the breast resting in his palm, and nuzzled at her neck, pleased when she reflexively pressed back against him again. His hand slid down to her side, splayed over her hip. “Are you sore, Sansa?”  

“A little sensitive, maybe.” Her breath caught as his hand brushed lightly at the curls between her legs. “ _Oh_.”  

He tentatively reached deeper to dip a finger inside, amazed to find her welcoming and wet. He pressed a hot mouth to her neck as he stroked and cupped her, trying to prevent another undignified moan. Sansa began to rock against his hand, uncertainly at first and then with more vigor, and the sensation of her thighs against his cock became _overwhelming_. “Gods, Sansa, can I-?”

She made a throaty sound that definitely sounded like approval to him, and he lifted a velvet thigh to give himself _just_ enough stretch to find her entrance and slowly sink into her, groaning in desperate relief as she surrounded him. “Oh, gods, _Sansa_.” Their position didn’t allow for much more than slow, gentle movements, but he reveled in the pull of her, burying his face in her hair, pressing his palm against her core to encourage her to grind back onto him. She readily obliged, and he descended into a slow, blissful rhythm, exorcising his more depraved urges with snug, wet feel of her sheath, the sounds of her increased panting, and a sudden irrational desire to stay entwined like this forever.

“Stannis,” she whispered, “I need-“ 

“Yes, Sansa?”

“I need _more_.”

Her voice was practically a whimper, and he moved his hand back to her thigh to open her wider again, and drove into her with more force. She groaned, and he repeated the motion. “Is that better, wife?” he growled.

“ _Yes,_ yes, that’s –“ Sansa trailed off and dropped her head back, moving with him with more vigor, and he groaned at her look of concentration. Finally unable to resist, he found himself biting at her neck and was staggered at the echoing snap of tension and pulse of her body as she came, rippling over him in a series of waves. “Oh! Oh! _Oh! Stannis!_ ”  The sensation urged his own climax in hard response, a stunning flood of release that left him staggered and breathless, shuddering with each echoing pulse as he emptied into her.

Stupefied, Stannis rested his forehead on her shoulder, then rolled onto his back and fought for breath.  He was only mildly startled when Sansa turned to slump bonelessly on top of him, evidently becoming accustomed to her affectionate nature. He rubbed a hand up and down her back, soothing them both, and for the first time in his life, wondered how long he could get away with staying in bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dem stag sex drives, amiright? and stephen dillane's stannis is a canon nape-nuzzler, we're sticking with that.


End file.
